We were wine drunk in a sleigh bed, watching Trollhunter in Norwegian with subtitles. He was my lover and my best friend, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Later we stepped outside to examine the garden by moonlight. The stove flickered, illuminating the warm canvas walls of our yurt. Rain fell softly, and my feet were bare in tall grass. Maybe I wore his jacket. I would have checked the pockets. Not for anything in particular. Remnants of Luke’s life just interested me: Receipts. Spare change. A lighter. Things he’d absentmindedly placed there. Evidence he was real. I don’t remember what was said, only that we were happy; only that I didn’t yet know he was broken.