The house is still quiet.
But it is not the same quiet as last night.
Something has shifted.
Not enough to call it anything.
Not enough to act on.
But enough.
When I go upstairs to change, the frame is still face down on the chest of drawers.
I stop in front of it.
For a second, I think about turning it over.
Instead I touch the edge once, just lightly, then leave it where it is.
Not yet.
Downstairs, Heath is asleep in the beanie again, calm as anything.
I take the photo Philip asked for.
Heath first.
Then the sea.
And after standing there for far too long, I take one more.
Just the kitchen in morning light.
The island.
The glass.
The space where Philip once stood barefoot in my shirt, singing like the world had briefly forgotten to be complicated.
I don’t send that one.
Not yet.
Chapter 21
Philip
Sophie calls on Sundayafternoon while I am trying to persuade an author that no, his detective cannot “smirk smirkingly” because that is not how adverbs or human faces work.
I put her on speaker and keep typing.
“If Noah has glued Jamie to furniture again, I’m busy.”
“That only happened once.”
“It happened twice.”
“The second time was festive craft.”
