He finds himself leaving little reminders around, like Scrabble tiles that spell out her name. Or a symbol painted on a stone, like a glyph in a language only they two understand.
Sometimes he takes a photograph looking with her eyes, as if framing the world as she would could dissolve the unseen barrier between them.
All these small tokens, a trail of breadcrumbs leading backward, out of the dark forest, and into the light of where they’d been, in a clearing of love and sunshine. Before it all went bad.
The shadows cast on his heart fade into night. He knows that she won’t come back—at least not like she was before—but he knows that one day he will have the strength to write her name in the sand one last time, watch indifferent waves wash the letters away one by one.