The apartment sat on the fourth floor of a renovated building in the Mission, with tall windows and old wooden floors that creaked near the kitchen. I had loved it the first time I saw it. Loved the morning light, the blue tiles in the bathroom, the tiny balcony just wide enough for two chairs and a basil plant.
When I unlocked the door, everything looked untouched.
The coffee mugs we chose together. The framed print from our first trip to Monterey. The half-built bookshelf Elias promised to finish after the honeymoon.
Nathan watched me from the doorway. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
He was my age, blunt in a way I usually found annoying but now found comforting.
I walked to the bedroom and opened the closet. My side was neat. Elias’s side looked disturbed, hangers shoved aside, drawers half-opened.
“He’s been here,” I said.
Nathan stepped closer. “Want me to check the rest?”
