She stared at it in shock, twirling the stem slowly between her fingers. Surely it had all been a dream. She had been there, had watched as the coffin lid closed, had wept over his grave and smelled the fresh soil that kept them apart. She had seen his face that night, so cold and unyielding, and it was she who had screamed wordlessly into unhearing blackness. He couldn't, just couldn't have…
Already the dream was slipping away from her, in the way that sand disappears beneath your feet as the waves wash over them. It felt so clear in her mind, but she was losing her grasp steadily, however much she struggled to remember. Though the details slowly left her, one stuck clearly in her mind: there was something for her. Something in his dresser, a gift. He had told her that.
Slowly, she drew the covers back, pulling herself to her feet as best she could. The distance to the door seemed long, and she traversed it numbly, her head light with drowsiness.
She stood in the doorway of Peter's room for a long, long time. Here she had spent countless hours talking about nothing and everything at the same time, crying on Peter's shoulder, and even telling over and over again of the amazing encounter with…
So she stood. Nothing had changed, and yet it seemed completely different. The same photographs on the dresser, same bedspread, same color paint on the walls, same stain on the carpet where she had spilled her strawberry lemonade, were all foreign and unyielding. Still, she made her way to dresser, and stood there a long time too.
If there was nothing there for her, it would all be over. Peter would be gone for sure, just a dream now. If there was nothing there, Peter was dead. If there was something in there… Then what? He was alive? He wasn't alive, she had seen him lying there, she had seen it, seen it. Seeing is believing. If there was something there… She didn't know what. The dresser drawer was heavy pulling out. And there, on top of some socks and a slightly folded plaid shirt, was a package. Gift wrapped.
Again, she stood. Staring. Still not knowing what to do, except to pull out the package and unwrap it. It was a simple photo album, probably no more than five dollars at any novelty shop. Slowly, she opened it.
First was a picture of her, laughing so hard that her nose was wrinkled up and her eyes were nearly shut. She hadn't known he'd taken it-Peter had a way of sneaking his photos in. After that, a picture of the two of them, six years old, ice cream smeared on their faces and grinning as children will into the camera. Then again, a little older, playing picnic in Peter's yard. Then more, and more, getting older and older, some with Peter but most without, her laughing with friends, smelling a flower, reading a book when she thought she was alone… All of them beautifully composed, perfect photographs.
She sat down on his bed, shivering a little, still turning the pages and staring. And then, even though there wasn't a drop left in her, she began to cry. Not the hard, body-shaking sobs she had before, now controlled tears that ran down her face unbidden. The tears closed her eyes for her, and she fell asleep again, curled up around the album, face buried in his pillow.