I left it there. Let the brisket cool. Let the champagne warm. Let the candles sink into the frosting. I wanted the room to remain as evidence.

Then I went to my office.

My office sat at the end of the west hallway, behind a pair of pocket doors. The room carried the scent of leather, aged paper, and the light cedar oil I used on the bookshelves.

A portrait of Nancy hung above the fireplace, taken the summer before her illness came back. She was laughing in that picture, her head tilted slightly, one hand resting at her throat where the sapphire pendant I’d bought her in Paris caught the sunlight.

I looked at the pendant in the portrait and felt the first real ache settle into my chest.

“Nancy,” I whispered.