I reached up and touched the corner of the metal, feeling the cold silver under my fingertip. I did not turn it over.
Emily had been sixteen in the photograph, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, laughing at something behind the camera.
Nolan had turned the frame down the day after the funeral ten years ago.
He had said he could not look at her eyes while he was trying to put his shoes on in the morning.
Since then, neither of us had spoken her name. It was a rule we never wrote down, but we both lived by it, as if saying the syllables would cause the plaster in the ceiling to crack.
I pulled my cardigan from the hanger, leaving the silver frame exactly as it was.
My wrist felt heavy with the white gold bracelet. It clinked against the metal closet door handle as I closed it.
