The SUV drove off down the dirt road, kicking up dust—July had been dry, no rain for two weeks—and disappeared behind the birches. Eleanor stood at the gate for another minute. Before leaving, Anthony had texted: “We’ll send photos and updates once they settle in.” She had replied: “Good.”
The house was quiet. Truly quiet: no rustling, no whining, no claws ticking across the floor. The crate stood by the wall, and inside it lay Walter’s old sweater. Eleanor opened the notebook to the last written page. Wrote: “Gray and Quiet left today. Both healthy.”
She looked at the line. Forty pages, from the first night to this morning. Neat handwriting, columns, notes. And between them, the things she had never meant to write down. About Daniel. About the late-night conversation. About laughing at Gray’s yawn… She closed the notebook and put it in the desk drawer, where Mike’s note was.
There was a knock at the door. Frank came in without waiting, shuffled into the kitchen, set a small unlabeled bottle on the table. Sat down in the chair by the window, laid his cane across his knees, and looked outside. Said nothing.
Eleanor took out two mugs. Set them side by side. Frank poured a little into each, two fingers deep. Pushed one toward her. She took it. They sat and looked out the window, where the road beyond the birches no longer looked any different from any other road.
A cicada buzzed in the yard. By noon the heat had turned thick, almost solid. Then Eleanor picked up the phone and called Daniel. He answered on the third ring.
— Grandma, how are they? — he asked right away.
— They left, — Eleanor said. — Both healthy.
She took a breath.
— Tell me about your thesis. From the beginning.
A short silence on the line, and in it she could hear surprise turning into something else.
— From the very beginning? — Daniel asked.
— From the very beginning, — Eleanor said.
Frank kept looking out the window and did not interrupt.
