Prologue

Wren

We are all going to die—at some time, at some place, and in some way, because all life ends eventually. How is never guaranteed, when is a mystery, and why is one of life’s most pondered questions. But what anyone will tell you is that the world will still carry on, even in our absence. The garbage trucks still collect the trash, the bills still arrive in the mail, the cars still fill the freeway, the sun still rises and sets.

Since the day my fiancée, Lucy, died, I knew that the world would carry on without her, but my world stopped. The trash piled up, the bills went unpaid, the car sat in the street for months on end, and the sky, like many other things in my life, lost all its joy and color. Since that day, I have been waiting for a morning when I open my eyes and her face is not the first thing I see. I have been waiting to listen to the rain and not hear her footsteps in between its soft patter. I have been waiting for a sun-­ drenched afternoon when I don’t hear a knock at the door and think that it is Lucy coming home.

We lived in a townhouse in Manhattan. It was a beautiful brownstone, its timber finishes polished despite its age. Marigolds grew on the windowsills, and potted plants lived on the stoop. We had a balcony that overlooked a courtyard, wisteria twisting along the fences in lazy, fragrant spirals. In the summer I would sit and write from a small iron table on the balcony, shaded by the vines, and in the winter I worked from my office, nestled in front of the fireplace with Lucy often curled up nearby, reading or simply watching the flames. I wrote everything, novels, books of poetry, collections of essays, and at the center of it all was Lucy. I wrote about my love for her, about the…

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