"I don't want to take him away from the life he loves," she said.
Alice smiled. "Then don't. Maybe find out whether there's room for both of you in it."
The anniversary of Claire's death approached in late November. Daniel mentioned the date almost casually, but Victoria noticed that he worked longer hours during the days leading up to it and laughed less readily at Alice's teasing. She offered to leave him alone that weekend. Daniel thanked her for understanding, then surprised both of them by asking if she would join him for a walk on Sunday afternoon instead.
They went to a small public garden near the edge of the city. Daniel carried a bunch of simple white flowers and placed them beside a bench where he and Claire had once spent afternoons reading. He told Victoria about a winter when they had argued over whether to move to a larger house, about Claire's dislike of expensive restaurants, and about an unfinished holiday ornament they had once tried to build from scraps of walnut. Most of the stories were funny. A few hurt visibly to tell.
Victoria listened. She did not ask whether it was difficult for him to share those memories with another woman, because the answer was evident in the care with which he chose each one. When he stopped speaking, they sat in companionable silence until the light began to fade.
"I've been afraid," he said eventually, looking out toward the garden path. "Not of you. Of what it means if I let myself want something good again. Sometimes it feels like moving forward is the same as moving away from her."
Victoria watched a child run across the grass toward a waiting parent. "I don't think love is a place you leave behind," she said. "I think it's part of what you carry. If she taught you how to love something well, perhaps loving again is one of the ways she stays with you."
Daniel turned toward her. For a moment she worried that her words were too bold, that she had presumed to understand a grief she could only see from the outside. He reached for her hand and held it gently between his own.
"Claire would have liked you," he said.
Victoria looked down at their hands. "I hope so."
"She'd have argued with you about the best finish for a walnut table. She'd have won, too."
Victoria laughed, and Daniel's grip tightened slightly. They did not need to say anything more that afternoon. The walk home was quiet, but the silence felt different now, less like caution and more like trust.
A few weeks later, Daniel told Victoria about an old barn on a property outside the city. The owner had asked whether he wanted any salvaged lumber before the structure was dismantled for safety. Daniel planned to go with a friend and carefully inspect what could be reclaimed. He invited Victoria on impulse, then warned her that the day would involve dirt, splinters, and probably more disappointment than usable wood.
"You're making it sound like a vacation," she replied.