It was a scorching Australian summer afternoon, the kind that made the pavement shimmer and the air feel like a warm slap in the face, when the Anderson twins reunited. Many years had passed since either had seen the other, and their reunion was not a joyful celebration, but a sombre gathering, born out of heartache and loss.

*

Chris Anderson stumbled out of his father's detached, home office, a small, cluttered room that seemed to suffocate him with memories. He was sweating profusely, his shirt stuck to his back, but that didn't stop him from packing away the old man's things with a mix of sadness and anger. Under the sweltering sun, he lost his footing, and the cardboard box he was carrying crashed to the ground, spilling its contents - his father's CDs, books, and old school technology that the old man had stubbornly refused to part with.

As he hurried to collect the scattered items, his eyes stumbled across a face he had not seen in three long years - his brother, standing motionless, like a statue, in the backyard. Chris's frown deepened, and he looked at his brother, his voice tinged with annoyance, "Are you just gonna stand there all day, soaking up the sun? Or do you wanna help me take his stuff inside?"

His brother, Liam, smirked, his eyes scanning the familiar yard, taking in the sights and memories that flooded back. The basketball hoop, bolted to the wall, where they used to play and compete every day, was still there, though the net was torn and frayed. The flowerbeds, their mum had worked tirelessly to perfect and maintain, were overgrown, and the recently trimmed lawn was already yellowing in the sun. Finally, his eyes settled on his brother, larger than he remembered him being, with aged features that made him look like a man ten years his senior. "Nah, you look like you've got it all covered," Liam replied, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Chris huffed through gritted teeth, his anger and frustration simmering just below the surface. He stuffed the rest of his father's things back inside the box, his movements quick and jerky. He spat, not at his brother, but close enough to send a message, and stepped up the veranda steps, into the cool, dark shade of their childhood home, a place that now felt like a stranger's house.

The kitchen was a relic of the past, its open plan design a testament to a bygone era. Wood panels lined the walls, and a sturdy dining room table sat proudly between the kitchen and the lounge, worn from years of family gatherings. A single bead of sweat trickled down Chris's forehead, landing on the lid of the box he was carrying, as he slammed it forcefully onto the table.

The door creaked shut behind Liam as he stepped into the house, his presence marking the end of a long absence. "It's been a while," he said, his voice laced with a mix of awkwardness and nostalgia. Chris ignored him, instead rummaging through the cardboard box with a sense of urgency. "How have you been?" Liam asked, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the familiar yet unchanged surroundings. "Place looks the same, it's weird. I would have thought Dad would have changed something since I left."

Chris slammed the lid back onto the box, his movement swift and aggressive. In a low, strained voice, he replied, "I'm sure he would have, Liam, if he hadn't spent the last year confined to his bed." The unspoken anger and resentment hung in the air like a challenge.

Liam opened his mouth to speak, but Chris cut him off, his words piercing the silence. "I called you every day for a year, and you never answered, not even once. You know, I might have forgiven you, I know you and Dad didn't leave things on the best note, but you missed the funeral." The accusation hung in the air, a heavy reproach.

Liam stuttered, trying to form a response, but Chris cut him off again, his tone growing harsher. "Where were you? Dad's been sick for a year. A year, Liam. You never visited, you never sent a letter, you never called. And you want to know what's crazy?" Chris's voice rose, his anger simmering just below the surface. "Every day, all I ever heard was;" he mimicked their father's gruff voice, "'Have you heard from Liam? Has he called? Is he coming?'"

Chris's hand brushed through his hair, his face a picture of frustration and hurt. "Do you want to know how hard it was to tell him every day, every damn time, that his own son, my brother, wasn't coming, wasn't going to call, wasn't even going to let the old man know he was alive?" Chris's voice thundered through the room, his face reddening with rage as he roared the final line, "Even as he was lying there, dying on his deathbed!"

Liam stood frozen, unable to form a response, the weight of his brother's words suffocating him. Chris let out a disgusted tut and strode past his brother, disappearing out the door to grab more boxes, leaving Liam to confront the consequences of his absence.

*

Later, after his temper had cooled off and he was feeling hungry he made dinner for himself and his brother, who hadn't moved much since he had left. He was tempted to spit in Liam's food, tempted, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, his mother had raised him too right for that. He set the table with a precision that belied his reluctance, each plate and glass a deliberate reminder that some things could not be avoided. The meal, a simple affair of soup and bread, was a compromise, a tentative step towards reconciliation. Yet, as they sat down to eat, the long, empty expanse of the dining table seemed to yawn between them, a chasm of unspoken words and unresolved grievances. The air was heavy with the weight of their shared history, every bite a reminder of the fractures that had developed over time.

Liam took a bite of the chicken, his eyes widening in approval. "Thanks for dinner, you didn't have to, and I appreciate that" He smiled wistfully, memories flooding back. "You've gotten better, I still remember the first time you cooked rice when we were ten. Mum lost her shit, threatened to tell dad and everything."

Chris snorted, his face creasing into a grin. "Put too much rice in. I didn't realise they grew as they cooked. Damn thing was overflowing by the end." He shook his head, the laughter still echoing in his voice.

As they sat in silence, Chris lifted his beer bottle, the bitter scent of hops wafting up. The stillness between them was heavy with the unspoken memories of their time apart, the things left unsaid and the moments they'd missed. The air was thick with the weight of their shared past, a mix of good times and bad that still lingered between them.

Liam hesitated, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Look Chris, I'm sorry I never came to see you. Its just, it wasn;t easy for me. It had nothing to do with you. Dad just... well, it's complicated," he trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

Chris's harsh tone cut through Liam's apology. "He's dead. He won't hear you, or your apologies. Its too late for that now."

Liam's eyes dropped, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know, I just feel like I have to apologise, you know?."

Chris's expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "But I don't want your apology. Just forget about it. Dad wouldn't want us fighting. I shouldn't have lost my cool earlier, I was just a little annoyed that you chose to wait till after he was dead to come visit. So let's just drop all this shit, and you tell me what you've been up to all these years"

"Well, okay then." Liam's face brightened, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. ""I met this girl a couple years ago. Prettyist I ever saw. I was working in some shit hole of an office, and she was the highlight of my day. You know, I'm on call everyday, all day. Talking to morons and wankers who think they know better. Couple months in she walks past my desk and I just go all googily eyed, you know like from the movies, right in front of her, and I just hang up. So, we start talking, she's got a cute smile and a mole above her lip that looks adorable. Shit you not, a couple hours later she was coming home with me. We never been far apart ever since."

Chris turned to Liam, his question direct. "What's her name?"

Liam's answer was immediate. "Elizebeth." The name rolled off his tongue with a familiar ease.

Chris's eyebrows rose slightly as he pressed on. "Elizebeth. So, do you call her Beth, then?" The hint of a smile played on his lips, a gentle tease.

Liam's laughter was warm and genuine. "Actually, she prefers Liz. Says Beth makes her sound like a farm girl." He grinned, a humorous glint in his eye. "Something tells me she wouldn't do well out here."

The atmosphere shifted as Liam turned the conversation around. "And what about you? Got a girl, yet? Are you still working down at that garage off Smith Street?"

Chris shakes his head, his eyes clouding over as memories flood his mind. "Nah, when dad started getting worse I had to quit. We lived off his pension for a while, but when he got really bad it wasn't enough. I had to dig into my savings. That wouldn't have been enough if he'd have lived another month or two. The nurse alone costed a fortune."

A single tear rolls down Chris's cheek as he recalls the struggles of caring for his father. "I wanted him to stay in hospital, but you know what dad was like. When he set his mind to something, nothing will change it. I doubt even mum could, were she still with us. He said he wanted to go home, and be with her, in their house. You know, she's still out there, in her garden. Her urn's nestled up between those gnomes she loved."

Liam asks, his voice laced with empathy, "What was he like, you know, at the end?"

Chris's voice cracks as he relives the painful memories. "It was horrible. He slept most days, could barely move others. I swear that old bastard must have shit the bed every night. Whole house stunk by morning. He told me he wanted me to go. Live my life. Leave him with the nurse. But how could I do that? He had already lost the love of one son. So I stayed with him, did the best I could."

Liam's eyes well up with tears, and Chris can feel his own emotions threatening to overflow. "I don't know what to say," Liam said.

"You don't have to say anything," Chris says, trying to reassure him. "It's all over now."

Liam nods, wipes his tears away, and gets up to leave. Chris watches him go, feeling a sense of despair wash over him. He looks down at his plate, the thought of eating suddenly revolting. He grabs their plates and heads to the sink, but the weight of his emotions becomes too much, and he breaks down, overcome with grief. In that moment, they're both reduced to children, helpless against the tide of their emotions.

*

When the sun's descent behind the horizon had plunged the surroundings into a warm, dark blue, and the moon's soft light had begun to etch out the contours of the night sky, Liam lit his tenth cigarette of the evening. He stuck it between his lips, the flame from the lighter casting a brief, flickering glow on his face. But as the first wispy tendrils of smoke escaped his lips, his expression darkened, and he brutally snapped the cigarette in two, the bitter taste of nicotine making him cough and gag.

Chris emerged from the house, his footsteps on the veranda's wooden stairs a gentle warning of his approach. He positioned an electric lamp between them, casting a warm, golden pool of light that illuminated the brothers' somber faces.

"You alright?" Chris asked, his voice low and concerned, as he scrutinized Liam's haggard features.

"Can't stomach another cigarette," Liam muttered, his voice laced with disgust and frustration. "Shit's making me sick."

Chris nodded sympathetically. "Well, they do say that stuff can kill ya."

From his pocket, Chris produced a delicate, glinting necklace, which he placed in Liam's palm. The metal felt cool against his skin, and the pendant seemed to wink at him in the lamplight.

Liam's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the necklace. "Is this...?"

Chris's eyes clouded, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Same one she wore every day. I found it in one of Dad's old boxes in his office. I thought he'd have chucked it, considering how much he hated it."

Liam's gaze faltered, his eyes drawn to the darkness beyond the lamp's reach like a moth to a flame. It was as if he sought answers in the shadows, answers to questions he'd long suppressed. Then, a faint smile creased his face, a mixture of sadness and nostalgia. "I can't believe he kept it. I remember how he'd always tease her about it," Liam said, his voice barely above a whisper.

As he spoke, his eyes seemed to cloud over, lost in the haze of memories. Suddenly, his voice deepened, taking on the unmistakable tone of his father's. "'I don't work fifty hours a week for you to wear something so cheap and ugly, do I?'"

Chris's laughter was immediate, a warm, gentle sound that filled the night air. He countered with their mother's sharp, shrill tone, "'I never asked you to leave me alone for fifty hours a week with the children, did I?'"

The brothers' laughter intertwined, a rich tapestry of memories and emotions. Liam's eyes sparkled, and he adopted his father's tone once more. "'Well, it's better than spending another fifty hours a week with you, isn't it?'"

The night air vibrated with their laughter, a cathartic release of emotions long pent up. As the laughter slowly dissipated, Liam's expression turned somber. He turned to Chris, his voice laced with regret. "Hey, uh, I'm sorry I didn't help you with dad. I should have been around more, or at all."

Chris's response was immediate, his tone soft and reassuring. "Let's not hang on it anymore, Liam. Its in the past. Neither of them would want us fighting." The air seemed to clear, as if the weight of their shared history had finally lifted.

"I know, I know. Hey, if you aren't too busy, why don't you come meet Liz? I know she's always wanted to meet you," Liam says, attempting to inject some enthusiasm into the conversation.

"I'll come visit. You know, after I work out what I'm going to do about the house. Feels wrong to be here without them," Chris replies, his words weighted with grief.

Liam nods and gazes out at the garden, where their mother's presence still lingered. "Is Mum...?" he starts, his voice trailing off.

"Yeah, that's where dad wanted her. Last time he could move, he made me drag him out here. Just so he could see her one last time. You shoulda seen him. He was sobbing like a child," Chris says, his voice steady, but his eyes betraying his emotions.

Liam's face falls, a mixture of sadness and longing etched on his features. "God, I miss her," he says, his voice barely audible.

Chris's face softened as he thought back to their mother. "She was a good mother, always knew how to make our day," he said, his voice filled with nostalgia.

Liam's expression turned reflective, his eyes clouding over. "She made it at least bearable for me to be around him," he admitted, his tone laced with a hint of sadness. "I don't know how she tolerated him, but she did, and she made it work for us."

Chris gazed out at their mother's garden, the memory of her green thumb still vibrant in his mind. "He was like a different man when he was around her," he said, a note of wonder creeping into his voice. "She had this way of calming him down, of getting him to see sense."

The backyard fell silent, the only sound the faint hum of the lamp beside them. Then, without warning, the light flickered and died. Chris rose to his feet, automatically heading for the door. "I'll go get us another one," he said, but Liam's hand on his leg stopped him.

"Don't worry about it," Liam said, his voice low and soothing. "Let's just sit here a while." Chris hesitated, then nodded and sat back down, his eyes drifting back to the garden, where their mother's urn stood, a poignant reminder of the love she'd left behind. The moon cast an ethereal glow over the backyard, illuminating the memories etched into their minds like a nostalgic watercolor painting.