January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death.
The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it very obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove...
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___ONE MONTH LATER___
The sky shines clear blue as Derek stares up at the mansion.
His eyes wander up, up, over the rafters and blackened door, the weathered porch, the window to Cora's bedroom, the spot on the roof where his kite got stuck in third grade, the balcony where he and Laura used to hide when they were in trouble, the place his dad used to barbecue by the garage, and the patch of dirt where his mother's sunflowers used to turn towards the sun.
Sometimes they would gather in the living room and tell ghost stories when the power went out, and later Cora's tiny footsteps would wander into his room at night and crawl into bed with him. He remembers peeling corners of the upstairs bathroom wallpaper while waiting for the shower to grow hot, the scolding his mother gave him about it two weeks later, how Laura would leave the couch pillows askew just to annoy him, and the same pillows being used as protective padding the time his dad insisted on showing him how to ride a bike.
