And then one day I realized the asking had stopped, that the hoping had quietly worn itself out, and I did not know whether to be grateful that they were spared the fresh wound of it or heartbroken that their brothers had passed, for them, from people into memory.

But I still could not empty the rooms.

My own grief had found a kind of equilibrium, a way of being carried that did not knock me down every day, but the rooms were the one place I would not compromise.

They stayed as they were.

Dust gathered.

The folded-down corner of Wyatt’s magazine yellowed.

And I kept resting my hand on the doors in passing, the way you touch a sleeping chest to feel it rise.

The girls, I knew, worried about it.