Mark
I stayed out of the way at first.
Not because I didn’t want to help—but because I wanted to understand. Melody didn’t pack like someone moving houses. She packed like someone making deliberate choices about what stayed with her and what no longer deserved the weight of being carried.
She moved with quiet efficiency, but there were tells if you watched closely.
The way she smoothed the edge of a folded shirt before placing it in a box.
The pause before deciding whether something went in keep or donate.
The faint tightening of her jaw when her fingers brushed something tied to memory.
I noticed everything.
I caught up to her near the kitchen island as the guys began sealing boxes and labeling them. I kept my voice low, private.
“Tomorrow morning,” I asked gently, “are we packin
