“I thought you agreed with her because you never said otherwise.”
I tried to remember the last time I’d asked about a project she’d completed.

The silence answered for me.

“I want to see them,” I said.

“Not because I’m checking on you.

Because they’re yours.”
She brought out a sketchbook with botanical illustrations, soft pencil portraits, and an unfinished drawing of a winter window.

I recognized our old apartment beneath the snow but noticed that she’d drawn a warm lamp in every room.

“I kept drawing what I wished that place felt like,” she explained.

We set up a small table near the river-facing window and arranged her materials within easy reach.