Ethan Greywater's Arc

Chapter 11 of 17

Ethan knelt at the open door, the diary heavy in his hands. His wife waited in the light, her face set against him. He had the memory of her death now. But when he reached for the good days, for the reason she should want him back, he found nothing. Only the one terrible night. He begged her to remember their love, but the words came out flat. He did not feel what he was saying. Margaret heard the hollowness. She turned away from the door. "You can name the night you killed me," she said. "But you can't name one morning we were happy. There's nothing left of us in you." She was right. Silas had buried more than her death. He had scraped away their whole life together. Ethan looked down at the open door between them and understood. A plea with no memory behind it was just noise. He had to find the love before he could offer it. He left the door open and went into the haunt. He did not go to the grave or the childhood home. Something pulled him toward the water. He crossed to a small boathouse at the lake's edge, its wood pale and worn, its door hanging loose. He had never come here before. His feet seemed to know the way. Inside, dust covered a workbench. On it lay a small round locket, its glass face clouded. He picked it up. Behind the glass, pressed flat, were flowers. A blue one. A red one. A pale gold one between them. The memory opened like a wound healing. Margaret had picked these flowers on the dock, one spring morning. She had laughed and tucked them behind his ear. He had pressed them into the locket that same day so they would never fade. He remembered her wet feet on the warm boards. Her voice. The way she leaned into his shoulder. It was all there, suddenly, whole. Beside the locket lay a slender silver comb. He remembered buying it for her. She had worn it every day after. He had forgotten her entirely, and here were his own hands, years ago, choosing it for her. He carried both back to the door. The light still burned. Margaret stood far back now, half turned to leave. "I found the boathouse," he said. His voice shook, but it was full this time. "You picked these on the dock. You put them behind my ear. I saved them for you." He held out the locket and the comb. Margaret stopped. She came to the door and looked at the pressed flowers, then at the comb. Her hard face broke. "You remember," she whispered. "All of it," Ethan said. "Not just the night. The mornings too." Margaret took the comb through the open door. Her hand closed around it. She did not pull him through. But she did not turn away. "Then I have one thing left to ask you," she said. "And I'm afraid of your answer."