I can still picture the day I said goodbye to that hideous old couch. It was a cloudy autumn morning, and Bryce had already left for work. Our dog wandered the kitchen, and the living room’s gray light cast shadows over the sagging cushions. I’d been begging Bryce to get rid of the couch for months. Every time, he’d mumble, “Yeah, soon,” but never did. It was baffling. The couch, once pale blue, had faded to a murky gray-green. The cushions were misshapen, the springs poked through, and a musty smell clung to it. That morning, I called a hauling company. They arrived by noon, eyeing the decrepit couch with mild disbelief. “Just this?” one asked. I laughed, feeling victorious as they carted it away. The house instantly felt lighter. I even picked out a sleek gray sectional that would arrive the next day. Bryce would surely be relieved. But that evening, his reaction stunned me. He froze at the empty space, his voice trembling. “Where’s the couch?” “I had it hauled away,” I replied, smiling. “A new one’s coming tomorrow.” “No,” he whispered, panic flooding his face. “We have to get it back.”At the landfill, the stench was unbearable. Bryce pleaded with the supervisor, who reluctantly led us to the dump site. His eyes scanned frantically until he spotted it. He tore at the torn upholstery, digging into the couch’s frame. From a hidden tear, he pulled out a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper — a child’s map, scribbled with stick figures and labeled “Leo and Bryce’s Secret Plan.“My brother,” Bryce choked out. “Leo died when he was eight.”Tears welled as he explained how they’d created the map, charting their adventures. After Leo’s death, Bryce had hidden it away, unable to face the memory. The couch wasn’t just furniture; it held the last trace of his brother. Back home, we left the ruined couch in the garage. But the map stayed inside — a fragile piece of the past. As Bryce shared stories of Leo, the weight of his grief slowly lifted. We had lost the couch, but we found something far more valuable: healing