Snow whispers against the windows, and the pines creak in the wind. I kick off my boots by the door, hang my coat, and start a fire. The flames catch slow, filling the room with that comforting woodsmoke smell.
The silence stretches. I should feel satisfied. The project’s on schedule, the event went off without disaster, and I’ve got an entire night ahead to rest.
But my body won’t settle. My hands twitch like they need to be busy, like I’ve forgotten how to be still.
I make myself a drink—bourbon, one cube of ice—and sit on the couch. The firelight flickers across the walls, catching on the framed photos.
I stare at the one of Claire standing in front of the old workshop, paint streaking her cheek, hair up in a messy knot. She’s laughing at something I said, though I can’t remember what anymore. That part’s gone, faded like the print.
My chest tightens.
It’s been almost a year since I last watched our home videos. I kept them on a hard drive, tucked behind a stack of old sketchbooks.
But tonight, maybe because of the snow, or the way Norah’s flowers smelled like something alive and dying at once, I feel the need.
I dig out the drive, plug it into the TV, and scroll through the files. There’s a folder labeled “Projects.” Another labeled “Us.” I click the second.
The first video opens with static and laughter.
Claire’s voice fills the room, bright and warm. “Ryker, are you filming again? You promised no camera while I’m working!”
“Can’t help it,” I hear myself say from behind the camera. “You look too good when you paint.”
She laughs, and the sound hits me like a punch. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by canvases, a smear of blue across her wrist. She’s wearing my old flannel, sleeves rolled up.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, dipping her brush in paint. “Come help me instead of hiding behind that thing.”
The video shakes as I move closer. She reaches out, paintbrush aimed at the lens.
“Say you’ll help.”
“I’ll help.”
“Say you love me.”
I hesitate just long enough for her to grin.
“See, even the camera knows you’re a liar.”
I can hear the smile in my voice. “I love you.”
“Good,” she says, and flicks paint at me. The screen blurs blue, her laughter filling the room again.
The video ends.
The next one starts automatically. Claire again, outside this time, the light gold and soft. She’s sketching the view of the river from the ridge. Her voice is quieter here.
“You ever think about forever?” she asks off-camera.
“Not really.”
“You should.”
I swallow hard.
The fire pops. Snow drifts past the window, glowing in the moonlight.
I watch another, then another. Each one a tiny slice of a life I can’t get back—her dancing barefoot on the porch, her showing me the new mural she painted in town, her sleeping under sunlight, half-covered in one of my shirts.
