The clerk listened politely at first, the way people do when they expect to apologize. But when I showed him her picture, his face changed. Not shock exactly—something slower and heavier, like recognition arriving where it shouldn’t. He leaned back, eyes flicking toward the office door behind him, then back to me. “This woman was here,” he said quietly. “She didn’t seem confused. She knew what she was doing.” He added details I hadn’t asked for: the time of day, the way she smiled when handed the keys, the destination she mentioned in passing. Each word landed wrong, as if reality itself had misfiled a memory.
I left without arguing, because there was nothing left to say. Outside, the afternoon went on with embarrassing normality. People laughed, traffic flowed, the sky kept its calm blue. I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel, realizing that certainty can fracture without making a sound. Maybe the clerk was mistaken. Maybe grief had sharpened my fear into something theatrical. Or maybe the truth wasn’t dramatic at all, just unfinished. My wife had always believed that some doors don’t close when we think they do, that life leaves echoes behind when we’re not paying attention. Continue reading…
