some of what's left

By the time we fly from the small town by the edge of the Pacific Sea where we married only hours before we have been travelling since eight in the morning. We arrive home across the road from the Bow River by almost midnight. We step out of the Uber in the dark, the pale glow of a streetlight gilding our faces like a mask.

As promised, the exterior of our home is structurally sound and safe from the fire. It looks just as our home always does. I take a long, deep breath. My body feels unsettled, uncertain about opening the door, seeing what waits only steps ahead of us.