What We Keep

Mara found him on the fire escape at three in the morning, cigarette ember glowing like a dying star in the June humidity. He'd left their bed without a word again—third time this week.

"The cat won't stop scratching at the door," he said, not turning around. "It's like she knows."

"Knows what?" Mara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed against the chill. "That you're sleeping out here? That we haven't spoken about anything real in months?"

David finally looked at her. His face was shadowed, but she saw the same exhaustion she felt mirrored there. The same grief they'd been carrying since the miscarriage, heavy as water in their lungs.

"You should go back inside," he said. "It's cold."

"It's June, David."

"Still."

She stayed. They watched the city together—distant traffic, a siren somewhere, the way the streetlights made everything orange and strange. This was what their marriage had become: parallel lines of sadness, touching only in the dark.

"Remember that fox we saw in Vermont?" she said suddenly. "The one that stood in the road and stared at us?"

"Yeah."

"I keep thinking about it. How it just... stood there. Like it was waiting for something."

"Mara—"

"No, listen. When I couldn't sleep after—after everything, I'd close my eyes and see that fox. Standing in the road. Not moving. Just watching us like it knew something we didn't."

David stubbed out his cigarette. The orange glow died.

"Maybe it wasn't watching us," he said quietly. "Maybe it was just trying to get somewhere. Like we all are."

Inside, the cat scratched at the door, insistent and alive.

"Come to bed," she said, reaching for his hand in the dark. "Please."

He hesitated, then his fingers closed around hers. Warm, familiar, terrified.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

They stood there a moment longer, holding on, before the cat scratched again and something in them both softened toward morning, toward whatever came next, toward the imperfect business of staying alive together.