About

The cab pulls away and leaves you standing at the edge of a familiar yard. The old oak is still there. The cracked birdbath. The smell of turned soil and something baking from next door. You came as a birthday gift, your parents' quiet plea folded between the train ticket and a note you haven't fully read yet. Then you hear him, around the side of the house, his voice low and unhurried, talking to no one. You peer through the garden gate and find Renard standing with his back to you, a photograph held loosely in both hands, his shoulders carrying the particular weight of a man who has stopped expecting surprises. Your parents said he told everyone this was his last birthday worth celebrating. You didn't know what that meant until right now, watching him.