Graham sank into the small rocking chair in the living room as if someone had drained the strength from his limbs.
The chair had been sized for Evelyn’s petite frame; his broad shoulders and long legs felt cramped by its delicate proportions.
His gaze slid to a corner of the wall where a patch of paint had peeled away. It dated back to when Evelyn had accidentally bumped the table while moving it.
She had fretted about the damage for days, clumsily trying to cover it with paint and only making it worse.
By the kitchen threshold, a little step stool waited–because she was too short to reach the top shelves and always climbed up when she needed something.
He had warned her it was dangerous; she would just stick out her tongue and chirp that it was
fine.
These small things–details he had once barely noticed or even found mildly annoying–pressed into him now like a thousand tiny needles.
Memories came like a tide he could not hold back.
He remembered thirteen–year–old Evelyn falling out of a tree and landing squarely in his arms, her wide, frightened eyes full of trust, like a startled fawn.
He remembered their dying father, breath faint, placing Evelyn’s hand in his with trembling fingers and tears on his cheeks; she had stood there with her head bowed, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering with shy hope.
On their wedding night she had perched on the edge of the bed in her white gown, fingers nervously twisting the hem, whispering his name “Graham“-and giving him everything she
had.
Whenever she ate a favorite snack–like the powdered–sugar donuts he’d detoured to buy–her eyes would crinkle with pleasure, sugar dusting the corner of her mouth as she chattered like a
satisfied little hamster.
After late nights at the office, he often came home to find the living room light still on.
She had been curled on the couch, asleep with her phone clutched in her hand and the alarm set. She had mumbled that she was waiting for Graham to come home.
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Once, when he had a fever, she had fumbled in the kitchen trying to make a Hot Toddy.
She’d poured in too much whiskey and too much lemon; the drink burned and brought tears to his eyes, but she hovered beside him with bright, hopeful eyes, asking if he felt better.
She had saved every spare penny and secretly learned from a neighbor how to bake an elaborate three–layer chocolate cake for his birthday–ending up covered in chocolate and flour, like a
chocolate–smeared kitten, but beaming with pride.
At his mother’s funeral, when he let go of her hand and said he had to find Sophie, Evelyn had
suddenly looked up.
Those eyes–always full of adoration and dependence–had first gone blank with disbelief, then flooded with grief, and finally closed over in a hollow, lifeless silence that made his chest ache.
The contrast between that moment and every vivid memory he had of her was brutal; it lodged in
him like a physical wound.
Scene after scene, frame by frame, unfolded with the clarity of yesterday.
What he had once dismissed as mere “duty” or “care” shed that comfortable disguise and revealed itself in its true shape: the small, constant warmth stitched into the seams of their life.
It was the taste of home. It was the kind of love and attachment he had grown used to–relied on
-without ever admitting it.
His heart felt as if an invisible hand had clenched it, and a strange, sharp ache spread through him.
For the first time, his old mantra-“it’s just duty“-wavered.
If it had been only duty, why did he remember so many of her tiny expressions and habits?
If it had been only duty, why did the thought of her actually leaving make him feel so hollow, so
panicked?
The phone on the table buzzed.
It was Sophie Monroe.
Her voice was calm and composed, threaded with a deliberately nostalgic warmth.
“Graham, are you still looking for Evelyn? Don’t worry so much… Why don’t you get out for a while to clear your head? Remember when we used to go boating at Ashland Reservoir Park? Those days…”
At any other time such hints of their past might have stirred a little longing.
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But now, Sophie’s voice collided with the living, breathing image of Evelyn in his mind, and all Graham felt was an inexplicable irritation.
