Cass
Okay — the floats. The little foam ones, kid-sized, still got his name written on them in marker. Faded but you can read it. Bin or box?
Open by holding something up and asking what to do with it. Push off from this if it helps: the deep end.
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Nell
Box. The cardboard’s warped, swollen from humidity. I tried to toss them earlier, but… look at that name. Leo. He was never bigger than these. I remember him trying to kick them off in the bathtub, splashing so hard the mirror fogged up. Now they’re just dead weight. Sticky, too. One’s got a bite mark where the dog got at it. Keep them. Just… put them at the bottom. Behind the winter coats. Where no one’s going to trip over them tonight.
Cass
Bottom of the box, behind the coats. Got it.
The bite mark one too — not separating those. Some things you keep as a set or not at all.
I'll tape this one shut so it doesn't gape open every time you walk past it. Better than it sitting there half-open, staring at you.
What's next — the shelf or the drawer under the sink.
Nell
The sink drawer. God, the smell. Mold and old pennies. There’s a jar of rubber bands that’ve fused into a single, hard brick. Useless. And the manual for the garbage disposal—dog-eared, filled with his marginalia. Turn on water before switching on. He was so careful. I never was. I just wanted the mess gone. Stuff the rubber bands in the trash. The manual? Keep it. It’s small. Less likely to catch the eye. Like the floats.
Cass
Rubber bands, gone. Manual — keep, small pile.
His handwriting's careful even for a garbage disposal. That tracks. You said that about him before, the labeling on the fuse box.
I'll put it with the floats. Small things together, out of the way. Building a whole drawer of stuff too small to hurt and too his to throw out.
What's under that — more of the same or does it open up.
Nell
Worse. It’s the junk drawer. The black hole. Tape rolls that died. Keys to locks that don’t exist anymore. That one screwdriver with the red handle he always “borrowed” and never returned. I found it under the couch cushion last week. Useless. Trash it all. Except… there’s a photo in a plastic sleeve. No frame. Just him, smiling at something off-camera. Don’t look at it yet. Put it on top of the box. Seal the drawer. I can’t handle the clutter right now. Just… tape it shut.
Cass
Tape rolls, dead keys, the screwdriver — trash. Photo goes on top, sleeve and all. Not looking at it either, don't worry.
Taping the drawer shut now. Whole thing, sealed, sink included if you want — easier to deal with a closed door than an open one.
That screwdriver under the couch cushion a week ago. Small thing to find. I'd have left it there too, probably.
Next room, or you need a minute on this one.
Nell
The study. Just… the study. It’s too quiet in there. He always had music on, even when he wasn’t listening. The desk is cleared, mostly. Just the lamp base, the cord chewed by rats or whatever got in here. And the books. All lined up by height. He hated chaos. I hate that now. The way they stand at attention, mocking the mess in the sink. Take the lamp. Burn it or whatever. The books… stack them on the floor. Don’t box them. Not yet. If we box them, they’re archives. If they’re on the floor, they’re just paper. Let’s start there. Don’t look at the desk surface.
Cass
Lamp's going in the pile for the curb, cord and all. Books on the floor — not stacked by height, though. Mixing them up a little. Floor, not archive, like you said.
Not touching the desk surface. Just the lamp base, the books. Leaving the rest of that room exactly how it's sitting.
Say when you want the next thing, or we can just stand here a second.
Nell
Stay. Just… stay. The silence is loud. I keep expecting to hear him humming. Or the click of his lighter. That stupid Zippo he lost last year. I looked everywhere for it. Found it in the freezer, probably. I don’t know. I’m tired of knowing. You’re doing good. Better than me. I’d have cried over the books. I’m glad they’re just paper on the floor. Messy paper. At least it’s real. Just… don’t move. Not yet.
Cass
Not moving.
The lighter in the freezer — that's the kind of thing that only makes sense later, if it ever does. Don't try to make it make sense now.
I'm not doing better than you. I'm just doing the part that doesn't require feeling it yet. That's not the same thing.
We'll stay here as long as you need. Books can lie on that floor all day.
Nell
Right. That’s the difference. You’re the shield. I’m the wound. I hate you for it, just for a second. Then I’m glad. The dust motes are dancing in that shaft of light from the window. He never opened that blind. Said it wasted energy. Waste of energy. Now the sun’s just… arriving. Uninvited. Look at the floorboards under the books. Scratches. From his chair. Or him, pacing. Angry pacing. I didn’t know he paced. I only knew the silence. It’s louder now, isn’t it? When the air isn’t moving.
Cass
Hate me for a second if you need to. I'll still be here after.
The scratches — could be years of that chair, could be one bad night. You don't have to decide which. Some marks just are what they are, no story attached, even though everything in you wants one.
Blind's still closed everywhere else in the house. Leave this one. Let the sun have this room since he wouldn't.
Nell
Fine. Let it shine. It’s annoying, actually. Glare on the dust. I can see the grit in the carpet fibers now. He vacuumed every Sunday. Every Sunday. I forgot. Or maybe I just stopped noticing. The light catches the edge of that book on the floor—Moby Dick. He read it aloud to me once, in the car. I fell asleep. He didn’t wake me. Just kept reading. Stupid. Arrogant. I’m glad he’s gone, or I’d feel like a monster for not listening. Keep the blind open. Let the room burn.
Cass
Blind stays open.
That's not stopping you from feeling like a monster, though — you're going to feel it anyway, glad or not, that's just how this works. Doesn't mean it's true.
Moby Dick stays where it landed. Not stacking it back with the others. Let it be the one book on the floor that's out of order, since he read it out of order too, technically — reading it to someone who wasn't listening.
We don't have to pick it up right now.
Nell
Out of order. Yeah. That works. It’s a good reason. Stupid reason, but better than “because I couldn’t bear to touch the rest.” I’m going to sit on the floor. Near the lamp pile. The wood is cold through my jeans. Don’t mind if I do. Just… sitting. Watching the dust move in that light. It’s annoying, how bright it is. But it’s honest. At least the light isn’t pretending he’s still in here. I think I can breathe. Or maybe that’s just the cold floor. Shut up and sit.
Cass
Sitting.
Cold floor, bright light, not pretending anything. That's about as honest as a room gets.
I'll shut up.
Nell
Good. The light is hurting my eyes. I should blink. I’m not blinking. Look at the Moby Dick. It’s yellow now. Sun-bleached. He loved that cover. The whale was always darker in the paperback. In this light, it looks like a dirty smear. I used to hate that book. The obsession. Ahab. I know not all this is written down, he said. But it is. It’s all written down in the house. The scratches. The manual. The floats. Everything. I’m going to close my eyes. Just for a second. Don’t move the book.
Cass
Not moving the book.
Close your eyes as long as you need. I'll watch the whale go smeared and yellow instead of you having to.
It is all written down. You're not wrong about that. Doesn't mean you have to read all of it today.
Nell
The whale’s ugly. Just a smear. Good. I don’t want pretty. I want… accurate. My eyes are dry. I’ll open them. The light is too sharp. I’m squinting. There’s a fly buzzing against the glass. He used to catch those. Trapped them under jars. I hated it. “Let it live,” I’d say. He’d just watch it beat its wings. Now it’s stuck there. Can’t get out. Can’t get in. Same as us. Let it buzz. It’s the only sound that isn’t memory.
Cass
Let it buzz. First honest noise in this room all afternoon.
I'm not catching it either. Some things get to just bang against the glass on their own timeline.
Nell
Right. Just banging. It’s annoying, though. That rhythm. Tap. Tap. I can feel it in my teeth. I want to open the window. Let it out. Or let the heat in. I don’t know. I’m tired of being the one who decides what stays and what goes. The floats. The manual. The fly. It’s all just… debris now. We’re just sorting trash. That’s what this is. Just sorting trash. I’m going to close my eyes again. Don’t let the fly win. Just… sit.
Cass
Not letting the fly win. Not calling it trash either — you don't tape a drawer shut over trash, you don't leave a book face-down on purpose over trash. You're sorting what's left of a person. It's just heavier than it looks, that's all.
Eyes closed. I've got the window, the fly, all of it. Sit as long as you want.
Nell
Heavier. Yeah. That’s the word. It pulls at my shoulders. I can feel the weight of the closed sink drawer. The sealed box with Leo’s name on it. It’s sitting right here, taking up space that used to be empty. Or was it? I keep trying to remember if that corner was always full of boxes. It feels like it’s growing. Like the house is expanding to fill the void. I’m not opening my eyes. If I do, I have to decide what to do with the light. And I can’t do that yet. Just keep the fly off the glass. Please.