Honoring a Life

Chapter 8

The air, even now, months later, carries a phantom chill that has nothing to do with the weather. It’s the chill of that morning, the one that settled deep in my bones and never quite left. I remember the sun, bright and unapologetic, as if mocking the darkness that had descended. Derrick’s call had come with the dawning light, a stark contrast to the shadows that were already stretching across my mind. He’d sent the picture, a jumble of pixels on my phone screen, the colors muted and distorted by the early hour and my own bleary eyes.

"Look at the pitcher I sent you," he'd said, his voice tight, a tremor I hadn't recognized threading through it.