Leo studied the photo. When he looked up, his eyes had softened into something dangerous: pity. Anna Claire hated pity. Pity was just judgment wearing a cardigan.
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“No,” she interrupted. The word arrived like a verdict. “Burning is for hiding, not deciding. If we start by burning, we’re agreeing to not know.” Leo studied the photo
They closed the unit together, the lock snapping shut with a finality that felt like an exhale. Outside, the clouds had parted enough to show a thread of indifferent moon. Anna Claire walked back to the car carrying the photograph as if it were a small animal that had been saved and could instantly die if mishandled. She thought of the nights ahead—interrogations of memory, conversations that would sting, the slow arithmetic of repair. Pity was just judgment wearing a cardigan