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On arrival, the familiarity of the street had offered a brief, disproportionate comfort. Empty of life but recognisable. A home and repository of memories from an unremarkable life, lived at the fringes of what he’d once wanted for himself.
She was decisive when he’d been a raker of smouldering coals, a crime-scene investigator seeking patterns in failure, a forensic technician of disappointment, a cultivator of grudges. That had irritated her. He’d been too lazy with his feelings and never policed them. He’d revealed too much of himself that she hadn’t liked, anxious tendencies he’d sealed away when they’d met.
Amidst the planetary sepulchre that had already been built, he’d added little. His had been an unremarkable existence and yet so many of these experiences had once obsessed him. How they’d burned his core with joy, bitterness, rage, laughter, excitement, abysses of loss. He wanted to assure himself that he would have done everything differently had he a second chance.
