drove away, I went down the hall.
The bedroom smelled like Cassie’s perfume and cardboard dust.
The dresser was empty.
The mattress was stripped.
There were faint marks along the baseboard where her shoes had been.
I opened the window.
I brought Patricia’s photograph back in.
I set my father’s watch on the dresser.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself feel the whole thing.
Not victory.
Not joy.
Something quieter.
A room returning to its owner.
A man returning to himself.
In the months after, Ryan called twice.
The first call was awkward and short.
The second lasted almost twenty minutes.
He told me he had taken a warehouse scheduling job while still trying to keep a small piece of his business alive on weekends.
I told him I was glad he had steady work.
I did not offer money.
That was new for
