The album fell open by accident.
That was the part Claire would repeat to herself later, when the meaning of what she’d seen tried to rearrange her entire understanding of the last twelve years. She hadn’t been searching. She hadn’t been suspicious. She was only cleaning—doing the quiet, domestic work that filled the spaces where questions might otherwise grow.
The album had lived on the top shelf of the hall closet since their last move, wrapped in tissue paper like something fragile and finished. Claire pulled it down carefully, smiling faintly at the familiar cream-colored cover embossed with their names and date.