Maeve closed the journal.
“What do you care about?”
Noah’s fingers tightened around mine.
“I want the memories that matter.”
“Which memories are those?”
He looked at me.
I knew the answer before he spoke.
“Him.”
The word fell into the room.
Maeve remained quiet.
Noah continued, anger rising beneath his exhaustion.
“I know where the kettle is. I know the radio loses reception when it rains. I know he sleeps on the left and that his feet are cold.”
“You know more than facts,” Maeve said.
“No. That’s exactly what I know. Facts.”
“Emotion often returns in another form.”
“That is what everyone keeps saying.”
His voice cracked.
“I am tired of another form.”
I shifted closer without interrupting.
Noah looked at me.
“Every time I recognize something, you hope.”
“I try not to show it.”
“You do show it.”
Pain moved across his face.
“You smile. Then you realize it isn’t you, and something closes. Like you’re shutting a door quietly so I won’t hear.”
My throat tightened.
“That is not yours to carry.”
“It happens because of me.”
“It happens because a truck struck you.”
“I want to remember you.”
