Owen pointed toward the empty boxes.
“You’ve been trying for half an hour.”
Noah laughed.
“Come on, then.”
We left the break room together.
The workshop radio was mounted high on the wall beside the north bay. Owen had connected his phone while setting up the coffee machine.
Most days, background music played quietly enough that we could work over it.
As Noah and I crossed the floor, another song began.
Not new.
Old.
A gentle pattern on acoustic guitar.
A male voice, worn rough at the edges.
I recognized it before the first line ended.
“Low Tide Morning.”
A song by a small coastal band that had played the Greyhaven tavern years earlier.
Noah and I had heard it on our third date.
Later that night, we had danced barefoot beneath the green navigation lamp while a storm rattled the apartment windows.
I turned toward him.
Wondering whether the music would mean anything.
Noah had stopped walking.
His cane slipped from his hand.
Metal struck concrete.
He did not react.
“Noah?”
His face had gone empty.
Not confused.
Absent.
His eye closed.
Opened.
His hand rose toward the scar at his temple.
