Frank wiped a glass and pretended not to notice.
By “Floating Through Space,” the sun had set. Frank poured her a root beer without asking. Zoe’s lips moved. Not words yet, but shapes. The song was about letting go of gravity, of shame, of the heavy anchor of grief. “We’re floating through space, child…”
She closed her eyes. For the first time, the silence behind her eyelids wasn’t empty. It was full of color—saffron, electric blue, the violent pink of a sunset Leo once photographed.