People in Burlington said I was “drowning in grief,” that I was “not myself” since the fire. The house at the edge of town—the one where my daughter, Chloe, had been staying with friends for the weekend—had gone up in flames in the middle of the night. By the time the trucks arrived, there was nothing left but black beams and smoke. They told me there were remains. They told me there was no doubt.

There had been a service. A closed casket. A polished stone with her name.

Everyone told me I had to accept it.

So I tried. I drank the herbal tea my wife, Vanessa, brought to my bedside each evening.

“For your nerves, Marcus,” she would say softly, her hand lingering on my shoulder. “You haven’t been sleeping.”