The phone rings at 9:14 a.m.

  Harold is sitting at the small desk by the window, staring at nothing in particular, when the sound cuts through the room. He flinches anyway. His first instinct is to check the caller ID before answering.

  He almost doesn’t.

  MARISSA L.

  His throat tightens.

  He answers on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh—Harold.” Relief floods her voice. “Thank God. I was worried it was too early.”

  “No,” he says quickly. “No, it’s fine. I’m awake.”

  A pause. The familiar kind. The one that always came before she asked how he was holding up.

  “I just… today’s her birthday,” Marissa says softly. “I didn’t want to let it pass without checking in.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The room seems to tilt.

  “I remembered you always used to make her coffee,” she continues, a sad smile audible in her tone. “She’d complain it was too strong and drink it anyway.”

  Harold closes his eyes.

  “I still do,” he says before he can stop himself.

  Silence.

  “You still…?”

  He swallows. “I mean—I did. I used to.”

  Marissa exhales slowly. “She loved you so much, Harold. You know that, right?”

  A memory surfaces uninvited: Marissa in the hospital hallway, mascara smeared, gripping his coat like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

  She loved you very much, she’d said then. She always will.

  His voice cracks now. Just once.

  “I know.”

  The sound that escapes him next could almost be mistaken for grief. It isn’t. It’s thinner. Sharper. Shame scraping its way up his throat.

  “You did everything you could,” Marissa adds quickly. “I hope you know that. The police said it was just—”

  “An accident,” Harold says.

  The word lands wrong.

  Marissa hesitates. “Yes. That’s what they said.”

  “I mean—” He clears his throat. “I mean, things just… escalated.”

  There it is.

  Her breath catches. “Escalated?”

  He hears it the moment it leaves his mouth. The weight of it. The implication.

  “I mean—stress,” he says immediately. Too fast. “We were both tired. You know how she got when she was overwhelmed.”

  Marissa doesn’t answer right away.

  Then, gently: “Yes. I do.”

  He imagines her nodding, absorbing it, filing it away somewhere she won’t look at too closely.

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she says at last. “I won’t keep you.”

  “Thank you for calling,” Harold says. It’s the truth. The worst kind.

  After they hang up, he sits perfectly still.

  His hands are shaking.

  He goes into the bathroom and turns on the sink. Washes his hands. Once. Twice. A third time. The water runs clear. The drain is silent.

  When he returns to the main room, he notices the bed is slightly uneven. One pillow pressed flatter than the other.

  He fixes it.

  Then he goes to the kitchenette and pours coffee.

  Two cups.

  He sets them side by side on the counter.

  The second one cools untouched.