Noah looked at me.
“Apparently.”
Warmth lived beneath the word.
It should have been enough.
It was enough.
And still, the memories returning belonged to drawers, electrical tape, crooked labels, and a terrible radio.
The yard had become familiar before my face did.
The thought cut despite everything I knew.
Recovery was not a contest.
Memory did not assign worth.
Yet some selfish, wounded part of me wanted Noah to look at me and know me with the same certainty he had recognized a failed outlet.
I turned toward the office.
“Paperwork.”
Caleb followed several minutes later.
“You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The jaw.”
“My jaw exists.”
“The specific one where you’re angry at yourself for being hurt.”
I opened the mail.
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re alphabetizing invoices that were already alphabetized.”
I stopped.
Caleb pulled the office door halfway closed.
“He remembered the workshop.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s good.”
“I know.”
“But not you.”
I looked up.
