The blue velvet box felt heavy in the pocket of my coat, a physical weight that seemed to drag my shoulder down.

She pulled out onto the main road, her brake lights flashing twice before she disappeared behind the lumber yard.

At noon, Mr.

Vance was sweeping dead maple leaves from the concrete steps of my building.

He was seventy, with a gray cardigan that hung loose from his shoulders and a slow, dragging gait that made the broom sound like sandpaper against the stone.

He stopped when he saw me walk through the iron gate.