David had always handled grief by running—first from hospitals, then from her. During Sam’s last months, he’d buried himself in work, visiting only when Ellen begged on Sam’s behalf. Even at the funeral, his eyes had looked past the coffin, fixed on something distant. She’d learned then that love and absence could coexist.
Two days later, Ellen drove to an electronics store, hands trembling on the steering wheel. She bought a small motion-activated camera. It was meant for wildlife or security, not graves. The clerk at the store asked if she needed help learning to set it up. “No,” she said quietly. “I can do it myself.”