The box was a stupid idea. A cardboard coffin. He'd dragged it out. Dumped the contents on his apartment floor. A sad little museum. Receipts from jobs he'd quit. A broken pen. The cheap paperback.
The book fell open. The photo half fluttered out. Landed face-up on the dirty linoleum.
He stared at it. A piece of her. A piece of that blue. A piece of his own stupid, hopeful face.
Enough.
He picked it up. Between his thumb and finger. Like it was contaminated. He walked to the kitchen. Opened the trash can under the sink. The smell hit him. Old food. Sour milk. Real.
This was it. The end. Toss it. Let the city chew it up. Burn it. Bury it.
He held his hand over the open mouth of the can. His fingers wouldn't open.
He tried. His brain sent the signal. Drop it.
His hand disobeyed.
The photo was just paper. Faded. Torn. It was nothing. A ghost. It wasn't her. She was a woman now. A ghost in a green coat in an airport. Or gone forever in a car wreck. She wasn't this.
He gritted his teeth. Shook his hand. A violent jerk.
The photo slipped. Fell.
It didn't go in the can. It caught the edge. Fluttered. Landed on the floor. On a greasy spot next to the fridge.
He cursed. Loud. A raw sound in the empty apartment.
He bent. Picked it up again. Now it had a smear of gray grime across her shoulder. Perfect.
He went to the window. Opened it. Cold night air rushed in. Four stories up. He could just let it go. Watch it spin down into the alley. Let the rain and the rats have it.
He held it out. Over the darkness.
His arm locked. A cramp. A rebellion in the muscle.
He couldn't.
It wasn't about the photo. It was about the last thread. The final string connecting him to that version of himself. The kid who believed in a promise. The kid who felt a touch and thought it could change the world.
Throw away the photo, and you admit that kid is dead. That the promise was dust. That the touch meant nothing.
He wasn't ready to bury him. That stupid, ruined kid. He was all he had left.
He pulled his arm back in. Slammed the window shut.
He slid down the wall. Sat on the cold floor. The photo in his hand. He looked at it. Really looked.
The grime smear looked like a shadow. Like part of the picture now. A stain from the future, reaching back.
He brought it to his face. Didn't smell like mint or cigarettes. Smelled like dust. And kitchen grease. And him.
This was the relic. Not of her. Of them. Of the before. The only proof that the before was real. That he didn't make it all up in his lonely, broken head.
The erasure failed.
He didn't put it back in the book. He left it out. On the counter. A dare.
He went to bed. Tried to sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his hand over the trash can. The moment of weakness. The moment of surrender that didn't happen.
He got up. Twice. To check it was still there. It was.
In the morning, he made coffee. The photo watched him from the counter. A silent judge.
He picked it up. Wiped the grease smear with his thumb. It just smeared more.
He put it in his wallet. Not hidden. In the main part. Behind a few bills. So he'd feel it. Every time he paid for something. A reminder.
The erasure was a lie. You don't erase a ghost. You just move it. From a box, to a counter, to your wallet. Closer and closer. Until it's part of your skin.
He left for work. The weight in his back pocket was different. Heavier.
He hadn't thrown away the photo. He'd promoted it. From a memory to a permanent resident.
The ghost had won. Again.