After months of volunteering, he found a fragile rhythm again—work, the shelter, and long walks by the sea. Sometimes he almost believed he was healing, though he knew better than to trust the calm. Guilt and grief were a tide: even at low ebb, it always came back.
The dreams returned occasionally. It was always the same—Adeline standing at the gas station, rain streaking her hair, her eyes unreadable. At times, she looked scared witless, while at others she looked knowing and calm. She looked free then. He woke drenched in sweat, whispering her name into the dark like a prayer for the dead.