He opened the window and on the sill saw the blackbirds’ nest he had found one morning under a tree and had placed on the swing for her.

Over the tops of the trees, the view extended all the way to the end of the park, to the pond, which they had often circled on their walks, and to the boat they had frequently passed but never used, saving that particular excursion for another time. Since then he had sat in the boat many times, looking over at her flat, making up for the boat trip they had never taken.

The smell of freshly baked bread drew him to the kitchen, where everything had been prepared for dinner. On the table stood two glasses and an opened bottle of wine amidst pans and plates and fruit and vegetables and meat.

On the sideboard lay the flowers from the market. He put them in a vase with water and read a note listing the day’s schedule. The names and addresses were written in a hand that was not hers.

On the side of the stove, arranged in a sort of cone shape, were several of the stones they had collected on hikes along the river or brought back from trips. He had often warmed his hands with them. One after the other, he held them and thought of the places they had come from.

Photographs of children being hugged or kissed or held out to another adult were taped on the glass panes of the dresser. On the door out to the balcony, the angels painted by the previous tenant’s son had been replaced with beetles. They were no doubt meant to kill the flies.

From the balcony he looked down on the street he had taken to get to work. In the distance a traffic light turned red, and he remembered how she had stood at this light and he had crossed it in the other direction so that he could turn around and watch her from a distance. The light had stayed red for a long time. She had waited, lost in thought, and he had said to himself, she’s the one.

The bedroom door stood ajar. He closed it.