I touched the weathered wood.
The memory held.
No pain.
No flash that vanished before I could understand it.
A complete small moment belonging to me.
“I remember arriving.”
Reid’s eyes filled.
We walked up the ramp together.
At the porch, I stopped again.
The door was painted blue now instead of white.
But beneath the new paint, a shallow gouge remained near the frame.
I touched it.
“Mercy’s anchor.”
Reid inhaled sharply.
“You carried it inside during the storm because you thought someone would steal it.”
“I dropped it.”
“Into the door.”
“You were furious.”
“I was trying not to laugh.”
I looked at him.
“You laughed in the bathroom.”
His mouth opened.
“You remember that?”
“Yes.”
More followed.
Not a flood.
Rooms lighting one by one.
Reid at the kitchen counter chopping onions too large because he was impatient.
The smoke alarm sounding after I forgot oil on the stove.
A blanket on the floor when wind drove rain beneath the bedroom window.
