What We Buried in the Garden

The fox appeared at dusk, just as I was burying the papaya peels behind the garage. It watched me with clever, hungry eyes, its orange coat bright against the dying light. I hadn't slept properly in three weeks—not since the funeral, not since I found the photographs in his phone.

"You look like shit," Mara said over video call, her face pixelated and sad. She was in Tokyo now, halfway through a PhD she'd started at thirty-five. "You look like a zombie, El."

"I feel like one," I said, my reflection in the black screen showing hollow eyes and skin too pale. "I'm just... existing. Walking through the house, making coffee, feeding the cat. Spinach for dinner again because it's easy."

The papaya had been his favorite. I'd bought it on impulse, the tropical scent hitting me in the grocery store and dropping me to my knees in the produce aisle. The clerk had asked if I was okay. I'd said yes, swallowed the sob, and carried it home like a bomb.

Now the fox returned every evening, waiting for the fruit scraps like it was a ritual we'd established. Sometimes I spoke to it, words tumbling out about betrayal and trust and how you can share a bed with someone for seven years and never really know them. The fox never interrupted, just flicked its ears and waited.

Tonight I dug deeper, unearthing the small box I'd buried last month—not papaya skins but wedding rings and a passport and the key to a safety deposit box he'd never mentioned. The fox watched as I reburied it, as if understanding some things can't be eaten, only hidden.

"Maybe it's time to stop waiting," I told it. "For him to come back, for answers, for anything to make sense."

The fox tilted its head, then turned and vanished into the woods. Inside, the cat meowed at the empty spot on the sofa where he used to sit. I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of a half-lived life, and finally made myself something besides spinach. The papaya would rot in the garbage. Some things you don't have to keep.