The hum of the heavy black fan in the hallway always vibrated through the floorboards of our bedroom, but this morning it sounded like a low, warning whistle. I dragged my yellow dust cloth across the top of the mahogany dresser, moving carefully around the small wooden jewelry box Olivia had given me for my forty-fifth birthday.
Brian stood in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the pine frame. He adjusted his silver wristwatch, the metal strap clicking against his skin in the quiet room.
“You have been dusting that dresser for twenty minutes, Evelyn,” he said.
“There is dust in the corners, you see,” I said, smoothing my floral skirt with my free hand.
He did not answer, but his eyes drifted down to the floor molding. His hands were rough from forty years of carpentry, the knuckles slightly swollen. He checked his watch again, the silver face catching the pale morning light that filtered through the blinds.
The room smelled of lavender sachet and old carpet. Through the window, the morning light showed every tiny speck of dust floating in the air, drifting like miniature stars that had nowhere to land.
Brian took a step into the room, his heavy boots squeaking on the wood. He was fifty-five, but lately he walked with the caution of a much older man.
“We should think about getting the oil changed in the Buick,” he said, looking at his watch again. “It has been five months since the last service.”
“The Buick is fine,” I said. “It only has eighty-two thousand miles on it.”
“I like to keep the maintenance on a schedule,” he said. “You cannot let the engine build up grime, or the whole system starts to wear down from the inside.”
I lifted the wooden jewelry box to wipe beneath its heavy feet. A small piece of blue paper, folded twice into a tight square, slid out from the gap between the box and the mirror.
It was the distinct shade of sky-blue paper Olivia used for her school stationery. I picked it up, my thumb catching on the sharp fold, and felt a quiet chill.
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