Holding her breath, she steps over the threshold, at last confronting his haunted belongings. With timid steps, she peers around. An eerie feeling rolls over her, as though she is in a museum. With airy brushes of her fingertips, she caresses the remnants of him in the reverent way elephants stroke the bones of their dead. Certain features stand out to her. The indentations on his pillow. (She bends to it and inhales deeply. A faint scent of him lingers on the pillowcase, earthy and oily.) The thick book on his nightstand. (She can see the pages he dog-eared, on the bottom of the pages, as was his habit) The green polar fleece hanging on the back of his desk chair. (She bends and inhales. It smells weakly of Bounce.) The pile of neatly folded work clothes on top of his desk, ready to be worn to the office.

Something in the trash bin beside his desk snags her attention. She recognizes the card she gave him on his last birthday, a few months before he disappeared. She leans forward and fishes it out.

“I got you this stupid gag card even though you didn’t want any gifts this year. I thought that was strange at the time. But I figured you were just having your third-life crisis about turning thirty. I still remember the look on your face when I gave it to you. You shook your head as if to say, ‘Kavita, why don’t you ever listen?’”

Why didn’t she? Listen, more closely. See the trouble in his eyes? They shone a message, but she didn’t know what it was. There was a message in his actions too, in not wanting any presents, not even cards, but she didn’t think that meant he wanted to die.

She places the birthday card on his desk, lets her gaze sweep over his things one last time, then drifts out of the room, mute as a ghost.