The Fisherman

by John Langan

It’s hard to hold onto any tragedies that aren’t your own for very long.

But there are some things, no matter if they’re true, you can’t live with them. You have to refuse them. You turn your eyes away from whatever’s squatting right there in front of you and not only pretend it isn’t there now, but that you never saw it in the first place. You do so because your soul is a frail thing that can’t stand the blast-furnace heat of revelation, and truth be damned. What else can a body do?

A man who’s newly lost his wife can expect a certain amount of sympathy, some leeway, but people’s memories are short for any sorrow that isn’t theirs, and his job has to be done.