Everywhere my eyes touched, there was a part of my life. Of our lives. Every picture and figurine and knick-knack had a story behind it, some that would take hours to tell in order to explain who the people grinning in black and white were to us, or where we had been, or why we had gone there. It was hard to look across them and not be overwhelmed by the past they represented, an entire lifetime compressed and separated into picture frames. Parts, all in a heap.

I picked up the Browning, the first and last gun the US Army had ever issued me back in the Second World War. Another thing that never failed me, that old.45. I had a sentimental fondness for that gun, and I don’t mind saying that I felt a little bad about how I was going to end its years of faithful service.

I put the barrel under my chin and didn’t flinch at the cold touch of the metal. I felt it distantly, the chill steel on someone else’s skin. I pulled the hammer back and the click was loud and wrong in the still, comfortable house. I squeezed my eyes shut, though I don’t know why. I know it won’t make any difference, but I do it anyway, and Margaret’s face appeared as I remembered her, back in her prime and glorious. She looked at me in shock and disappointment.

I opened my eyes to clear the image, and my guts knotted up. I tried to get the detachment back that I’d worked so hard to earn for the last year, and I managed to keep my face calm, even if some tears leaked out. Nobody could see them anyway.

The gun was rock steady as I put my finger through the guard and laid it on the trigger. The flesh of my fingertip started to whiten as I put slow, relentless tension on it.