So I started doing what needed to be done. I rolled up my sleeves, washed the smoke-soaked linens, organized canned goods into neat rows, and took the dogs on longer walks.

He didn’t talk much, but sometimes, from the doorway, he’d watch me fold sheets and make comments.

“You fold like my wife used to, Marisol.”

“You stir stew the same way my wife did.”

Another time, as I dusted the mantle, he stood there and looked at the clock.

“That clock stopped the day my daughter died,” he muttered. “It was… agonizing.”

I never knew what to say. I just listened.

Then, one afternoon upstairs, while clearing out charred debris, I noticed something strange. The upper floor was mostly blackened and warped. But at the end of the hall stood a pair of wooden double doors.

Untouched.