He missed a place that he wasn't sure had ever existed in quite the way he remembered it. The summer at his grandmother's house the year he was nine. The shape of the front porch. The smell of the lavender along the driveway. His grandmother's way of saying his name. She had been dead for twenty years and the house had been sold, and he carried the place around with him in a part of his chest that ached when he thought about it, and also the ache was one of the things he loved most about himself. The missing was not something he wanted fixed. It was how he kept her.