And my legs nearly gave out.

Inside were neatly stacked boxes labeled in Mark’s handwriting. Plastic bins. Photo albums. A garment bag hanging from a hook. Dust and old paper filled the air.

I opened the nearest box.

Photographs.

Mark was in them — younger, but unmistakably him. The same smile. The same posture. Hands tucked into pockets just as he still did.

But he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him.

The dates printed on the photos made my heart pound.

They were from before I ever met him.

I sat down on a bin and kept digging.

There were wedding invitations with both their names. A lease signed by them. Cards addressed to “Mark and Elaine.”

And then — a death certificate.

Elaine’s.

The cause of de:ath was written in sterile, official language that explained nothing.

“No,” I whispered into the silence. “No.”

I didn’t cry.

I found a letter addressed to Elaine from someone named Susan who shared her last name.

I needed to know who she was.

I locked the unit, searched for Susan’s address, and drove.

Her house was an hour away — small, worn down.

I pretended to be a journalist researching unresolved deaths. The lie felt ugly, but it opened the door.

Susan looked wary, exhausted in a way I recognized.

Then I saw him.