The narrow attic stairs groaned under our boots, the air getting colder with every step toward the roof.

Up under the rafters, the bare bulb threw shadows across the stacks of gray banker’s boxes Paul had stored beneath the collar ties.

The air smelled of old paper and insulation.

Paul had labeled each box in black grease pencil, marking the years in neat block print from 2010 to the spring before he died.

I pulled the box marked 2015 from the third stack, the cardboard rough and dry against my palms.

Sarah stood by the light cord, her arms crossed over her wool coat, her thumb tapping the side of her leg.