They hadn't spoken in three weeks. Not since the night the words became weapons, and he had said the one thing you can’t take back. He had expected a lawyer’s letter or a box of his clothes on the porch. He hadn't expected a playlist. He pressed play.

As the deep notes filled his headphones, Mark realized this wasn't just a song. It was a bridge. She wasn't saying it was okay; she was saying she was willing to remember the good parts again.

He closed his eyes, let the music pull the air back into his lungs, and finally began to breathe. If you'd like to continue the story, let me know: Should Mark immediately?

The song wasn't a ballad. It wasn't a tear-jerker. It was a low, steady cello suite they had heard once in a subway station in Prague. It was the music they had danced to in the rain while waiting for a train that never came.

Mark stood in the center of the kitchen, surrounded by the silence of a house that used to be loud. He didn't move. He just stared at the small, silver MP3 player sitting on the butcher-block island.