Daniel stared at the ivory dress, his lips moving without making a sound, his eyes shining in the dim room.
“You kept it,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Every single year,” I said. “Even when Clara told me to burn it.”
He reached out and touched the hem of the sleeve, his rough fingers catching slightly on the delicate lace trim.
At six o’clock, I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove, wanting the familiar weight of a ceramic mug to steady the shaking in my chest. The kitchen was cool, the shadows lengthening across the linoleum floor as the sun dipped below the tree line.
Daniel followed me, his eyes tracking the old wood cabinets and the yellow oil lamps lined up on the shelf above the sink in case of a winter storm. He moved with a quiet stiffness, as if he expected the floorboards to give way beneath him.
He stopped beside the small walnut table where I kept a few framed photographs of the family who used to fill this house with noise.
His hand reached out to a small silver frame containing a black-and-white picture of my mother and father standing on the steps of the Oakhaven courthouse in 1965.
