The Orange Peel at Dawn

Elena stood on the balcony of the apartment she'd shared with Marcus for seven years. The dawn light was pale, almost gray, matching the hollow feeling in her chest. She wore his fedora - the ridiculous beige thing with the feather he'd bought in a burst of vintage-shop euphoria three months before the accident.

"Stupid hat," she whispered, but her fingers traced the worn ribbon like a prayer.

Below, on the sidewalk, a golden retriever waited. Same spot, every morning since the funeral. The dog belonged to no one, or perhaps to everyone - the neighbors left water, sometimes food. Elena had started calling him Arthur, though Marcus would have hated the name. Marcus had wanted a French bulldog. They'd argued about it the night of the accident, her saying not yet, him saying you're never ready.

She peeled an orange, the citrus scent sharp and violent in the cool morning air. The bright color seemed wrong here, in this season of mourning. But she needed it - needed something alive, something that would rot if not eaten, something that acknowledged time's passage.

Arthur barked once, looking up at her.

"All right," she said. "I'm coming."

She descended the stairs, the hat still on her head, the orange segments in her pocket. When she reached the sidewalk, Arthur approached tentatively, then accepted the piece of orange with gentle dignity.

"Good boy," she said, and realized she was crying.

The morning sun caught the hat's feather. In the reflection of a parked car window, she caught her own silhouette - absurd in a dead man's hat, feeding oranges to a stray dog at dawn. But somehow, it felt like beginning.

Maybe Marcus was right. You're never ready. You just start.