The Reluctant Caretaker

The apartment smelled of stale coffee and the peculiar copper scent of old aquarium water. Maya stood in the doorway, clutching her sister's iPhone like it might explode. Three weeks since the funeral, and she still felt like a zombie moving through someone else's life.

On the couch, Barnaby—her sister's ancient golden retriever—lifted his head at the sound of her keys. His tail gave one hopeless thump against the cushions.

"Hey buddy," Maya whispered, dropping her bag on the floor. "Ready for our adventure?"

The goldfish bowl sat on the windowsill, its single orange inhabitant circling endlessly in what seemed like the world's most depressing marathon. Sarah had loved this fish with a ferocity Maya had never understood. It had survived three moves, one breakup, and now, its owner.

Maya's phone buzzed. Her ex.

*"Did you ever tell your sister about us?"*

She deleted the text. Some secrets died with the people who kept them.

Barnaby needed walking. She grabbed the leash from the hook by the door—a woven leather thing Sarah had bought in Portland years ago. The dog moved slowly now, his hips clicking, but his eyes still brightened when they reached the park.

The baseball diamond was empty except for two teenagers smoking behind the backstop. Maya closed her eyes and let herself remember: Sarah, nineteen, in her softball uniform, dirt on her knees, grinning after a home run. *"Some things you just hit out of the park, May. Sometimes you bunt. But you always show up for the game."*

She'd been showing up for games she didn't even want to play ever since.

The iPhone in her pocket grew warm against her thigh. Sarah had recorded videos—hundreds of them. Maya dancing at their cousin's wedding, Maya drunk on New Year's Eve, Maya asleep on the couch. A documentation of love that Maya had never noticed while it was happening.

Barnaby nudged her hand with his wet nose, and something in her chest cracked open.

"Okay," she said to the dog, to the fish waiting at home, to the ghost she carried everywhere. "Okay."

The goldfish would probably outlive them all. The dog would eventually join its owner. But this—this walking, this remembering, this being alive when someone else wasn't—this was the game you showed up for. Even when you'd rather stay in bed.

Maya pressed play on the iPhone as they walked home, letting her sister's recorded laughter fill the space between them.