Thursday began the way Wednesday had ended — with the photograph on the kitchen counter, the lake grey beyond the glass, the weight of the unsaid pressing against the morning quiet.
Aaron did not go to the archive. He stood at the window with his coffee, watching a heron stand motionless at the edge of the dock, and tried to decide whether calling his mother would make things clearer or more complicated.
Sophie found him there, dressed, her hair pulled back, a bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm driving to the printer," she said. "They have the proofs ready. I want to see them in person before they run the full batch."
He turned from the window. "I'll come with you."
"You don't have to."
"I know." He set down his coffee. "But I've been in that archive for two days. I think I need to be in the world for a while."
She smiled, a small and grateful thing, and held the door for him.
---
