The lake glowed orange beneath the sky.
I carried one of Robert’s letters.
Not the saddest one.
Not the most important one.
The funny one.
The one in which he confessed that during our honeymoon he had accidentally dropped my favorite necklace down a hotel toilet and spent thirty years pretending it had been stolen.
I laughed until tears came.
Then I whispered:
“You idiot.”
The wind moved across the lake.
For one ridiculous second, I imagined Robert laughing.
Not haunting me.
Not watching me.
Simply existing somewhere inside the thirty-four years we had shared.
Behind me, footsteps approached.
Daniel.
“Ready?”
I folded Robert’s letter.
“Yes.”
He held out his hand.
I took it.
As we walked toward the house, I looked through the windows.
Claire was dancing with Jonathan.
Michael was stealing frosting from the wedding cake.
Harold was asleep in a chair.
People were laughing.
Music drifted across
