“Every day.”
“That’s why it feels so strong.”
“Probably.”
“When did you last do it?”
“Before the accident.”
“You haven’t used it since?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I forgot.”
He absorbed that quietly.
“You forget things too.”
“More than I care to admit.”
“Not six years.”
“No.”
I moved his plate closer.
“But grief makes ordinary habits disappear.”
The answer quieted him.
He ate slowly.
Halfway through breakfast, his gaze shifted toward the stairwell.
“I want to go downstairs.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Maeve is coming at ten.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“You have exercises at nine.”
“I want one hour.”
“You had a severe nightmare.”
“And slept afterward.”
“You are still tired from yesterday.”
“I am tired every day.”
