After she left, the silence across the hall was unnerving. The subtle sounds I'd barely registered – faint plumbing, muffled music, Snowball's claws at the door – vanished. Then new tenants arrived, a couple with two young children, filling the space with noise and music and life. Ordinary sounds overwrote the past. Standing inside my door, hearing the new clamor, I realized Sophia's presence was truly erased. That sterile, secretive museum was now a cluttered, toy-strewn family home. It should have brought relief. Instead, a faint sense of loss touched me.
Residue
Months later, I thought I'd moved on. But some nights, I'd wake abruptly, Lucas Miller's smile from the Polaroid flashing unbidden into my mind. Or recall the sharp pain in Sophia's voice saying "he loved to laugh." Not nightmares, more like a lingering, melancholic refrain. Driving, I became hyper-aware. Seeing young boys, I'd look twice. I was no longer just the crash's survivor; I was an unwitting character in another family's tragedy. This awareness shifted my self-perception. My scars, to another mother, were the only inscription on her son's grave. The weight of this settled heavily, with no clear place to rest.
Snowball's Memory
Before shredding the folder's contents, I sifted through them one last time. A small, square slip of paper slid free, fluttering to the floor. I picked it up. A receipt from "Parkside Pet Paradise." Dated over a decade ago in June. Item: Persian Kitten (White), Vet Checked/Vaccinated. Notes Field: "Name: Snowball. New Home: Gift for Lucas? No. For me." I held the flimsy paper. It pierced me more sharply than any medical record or clipping. A mother, bereft, grasping for tangible proof of life. A mistaken, belated gift, for a son she could no longer embrace, and for herself. I folded it, tucked it deep into the back of my desk drawer.
Moving Forward
There is no neat ending. Wounds scar over. Sophia likely watches her cat bask on some balcony somewhere. I continue writing, drinking coffee. We carry our fragments, moving forward. Occasionally, I hear neighboring children laugh, and I pause to listen. Then I resume my tasks. Life persists. It offers no absolution, yet it presses on. And sometimes, simply continuing is enough.
