I reach out with my left hand to turn the knob, pausing suddenly as the autumn leaves rustle in her big, old maple tree.

I pull my hand away slowly. I have the strangest feeling that maybe I’ve been here before.

The breeze continues to blow over my shoulder, and it suddenly feels as though the weight of our past is pushing at me, trying to remind me of something I once knew, lifetimes ago.

Goosebumps break out over my arms.

Somehow, I know that her cat will walk around the corner of the house, mewing softly at me, and that a red car will pass down the street any minute. The same way I know that if I knock on this door, everything will change.

My hand hangs in the air between my body and her front door.

The wind shifts.

The cat pads softly onto the porch.

I lower my arm, because suddenly I know that I just can’t.

So I walk down the steps just as the red car whooshes by. The only trace I’ve ever been there is the tiny note I leave inside her mailbox that says simply: “I’m sorry.”