What Remains

The cabin had been his idea—one last attempt before the papers were signed. Now she was here alone, three months later, with the divorce finalized and a week of vacation time she couldn't bear to spend in the apartment they'd shared.

The cable had been cut weeks ago. Not by her—by a storm that took down the lines in the valley. No television, no internet, just the landline that rang sometimes with wrong numbers and the static between stations on the radio. She'd thought she'd hate it. Instead, she'd slept for fourteen hours the first night.

She stood at the kitchen counter now, tearing spinach leaves from their stems. The package had been in the fridge when she arrived—probably left by the cleaning service, or maybe by the last renters. Expired three days ago. The leaves were slimy at the edges, rot having spread like a secret. She threw them in the trash and opened a can of soup instead.

Her palm pressed against the cold windowpane. Outside, the woods were darkening. She'd seen the bear yesterday—a shadow at the edge of the property, massive and indifferent. It had looked at her with eyes like wet stones before turning back into the trees. She'd stood there for a long time, heart hammering, strange elation rising in her chest. Something in the world still had teeth. Something could still hurt her.

The soup hissed in the pot. She thought about the last time she and David had really spoken—really looked at each other. It had been over dinner, probably. Something with spinach, because he'd been on a health kick then, trying to extend his life while their marriage curled at the edges. She'd had something in her teeth. He hadn't told her. Hadn't reached across the table. Had watched her talk to his colleagues, smile and laugh with green stuck between her teeth, and said nothing.

That was the whole thing, wasn't it? Not the cheating—not exactly. The way he'd watched her fail, watched her make a fool of herself, and chose silence. Chose to let it happen.

The bear appeared again at the tree line, closer this time. She turned off the stove. She could go outside. She could open the door.

Her palm was still pressed to the glass, leaving a mark. A print. Proof she'd been here.

Tomorrow she'd go home. But tonight, she watched the bear, and for the first time in years, she didn't want to be saved.