Caleb Hightower felt a splintering in his chest as he watched a young couple hoist his family's worn kitchen table into the bed of their rusted pickup. This wasn't just wood and screws—it was a relic of his past, etched with countless memories. It was where he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with his mom, lost in late-night conversations that meandered through everything and nothing. It was where he tasted the sweet exhilaration of victory as his mom let him win board games, their laughter echoing off the walls. It was also where he saw his mother, awash in the ghostly light of a lamp, brows furrowed over mounting bills scattered like fallen leaves.

As the truck rumbled away, dust swirling in its wake, Caleb felt as if it carried away pieces of his soul along with that table.

He looked out over the front yard, now a disorganized bazaar where strangers foraged through the remnants of his life. Stacks of worn books, chipped dishes, and faded clothes seemed to mock him, each item a treasure trove of memories now reduced to nothing more than garage sale fodder.

Suddenly, the jarring sound of shattered ceramic jerked him from his reverie. A young girl, eyes wide with surprise, stood over the wreckage of a once-beloved coffee mug.

"That was my mother's cup, you little brat," Caleb seethed, his words sharpened by a grief that refused to be silenced. Caleb’s long, black hair covered his face making him look like a madman.

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The girl's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and tears started pooling in her eyes.

"Caleb! That is unacceptable," scolded Amanda, swooping in like some sort of corporate vulture in her stark black pantsuit and blonde hair tied back tightly. "Apologize. Now go find your mom, sweetie."

Grimacing, Caleb gingerly picked up the shattered pieces. A shard bit into his finger, and he winced at the sting, drawing blood. Caleb looked up at Amanda’s annoyed face and realized that she had the same brown eyes as his mother.

"Serves you right," Amanda sneered, watching him awkwardly bundle the shards into the front of his shirt. "Now sit down and stop causing scenes. We need to make some money off this junk before I donate it. Lord knows I don't want it cluttering my house."

"This junk is my life, Amanda," Caleb shot back, returning to the porch steps and sinking his head into his hands.

"'Aunt Amanda,' you ungrateful child," she corrected, not even bothering to look at him as she resumed her role as the yard sale impresario. “Aren’t you ever going to get a haircut?”

Caleb ran his hand through his long, black hair before he clenched his hands tighter, knuckles whitening. In his heart, she would never be 'Aunt Amanda.' She was the woman who only showed up when she smelled opportunity—never love, never empathy, only greed. Even now, with her own sister gone, she couldn't spare a single moment to ask how he was holding up.

As more strangers trickled through his yard, riffling through the fragments of his past, Caleb let his eyes wander over each face. Would one of them recognize the quiet plea in his eyes? Would one of them offer to rescue him from a future under Amanda's cold stewardship?

But as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the answer became painfully clear. No one would.