He stopped himself.
No.
Counterfactual thinking again.
Claire:
— We don't know.
— Maybe it would have changed everything.
— Maybe not.
— But it would have made me feel less alone.
David:
— I'm sorry.
She said:
— You didn't delete it.
— No.
— Then don't apologize for that.
Him:
— I apologize for the months before.
— We can talk about that.
They kept the audio.
Not as a romantic relic.
As legal evidence.
Later, Claire asked for a personal copy.
Sometimes she listened to it.
Eventually, she stopped.
— I don't need it anymore, — she said months later.
That was a good sign.
Claire finished her intensive treatment phase in December.
The same month in which Margaret expected the investment to recover.
It didn't happen.
Nor did it matter anymore.
The results: clinical remission.
Follow-up care.
No one said "cured forever."
Life after cancer doesn't come with background music for a finale.
There were check-ups.
Fear before lab results.
Fatigue.
Hair growing back.
Claire gradually gave up the beanie.
First at home.
Then at the supermarket.
One day she returned to the mansion to have dinner with David.
She hadn't moved back in.
She walked into the kitchen.
The same sink.
She stood there.
David saw her.
— Are you okay?
— Yes.
— I remembered.
— Me too.
She touched the countertop.
— How strange.
— Do you want to go somewhere else?
— No.
— I want it to stop being the place from that afternoon.
David cooked poorly.
Claire corrected him.
— Don't add more salt.
— You're not in charge.
— Then eat trash.
— Now that is coercion.
They laughed.
Later:
— I want to come back.
David set down his spoon.
Didn't rush.
— To live here?
— Yes.
— When?
— In January.
— Okay.
— But the guest room is still available.