“I’ve been fortunate to work with my wife for six years. The first three were…not my shining moments. At least not when it came to her. But, as Kyrie does, she lured me in, despite my best efforts to remain frozen. Even when she claimed to have given up on me, she didn’t. She persevered. And slowly, I began to see life through her eyes. It was like looking through a keyhole. The more I watched, the more she unlocked a secret world. Sometimes, there is violence and loss. Sometimes, there is beauty and joy. Sometimes I see grief, others elation. Despite it all, as though standing in the eye of the storm as resilient and unblemished as a polished, precious stone, is Kyrie Roth. And isn’t that what our best teachers do. They unveil hidden worlds, sometimes those that were right before our unseeing eyes. They ignite our curiosity. They make us question what else is waiting to be discovered, if only we let ourselves thaw.”

Jack looks to me once more, and I see in his eyes what belongs only to me. What he never shows to anyone else. “I didn’t know what life could be like until you shone your light into the dark. You are as indomitable as the sun. As integral to me as the lattice of marrow within my bones. And I love you, lille mejer.”

I’m up from my seat and weaving through the tables before Jack has even asked me to come on stage, the path to him hazed by a watery film.

But I will always find my way to Jack.

The applause is like rain behind a veil. Jack’s heart thumps a steady beat beneath my ear as I grip him in my embrace, and it’s the only sound I care to hear.

“You’re supposed to take this thing,” Jack whispers against my ear, nudging the corner of the plaque into my arm as his other hand holds steady to my exposed back. I nod, but it takes him pulling away before I let go. The heel of my hand grazes my damp lashes as Jack turns my shoulders toward the audience.

“I…um… I don’t think I can feed his bones to the dog,” I say in a tremulous voice as the audience laughs. “That was pretty great, Jack. Made up for the Brentwood thing. I’m not really sorry about the punishment that followed but maybe that’s a story for another time.”

The audience laughs again and I gather momentum as I rely on the details I memorized before tonight. I thank the faculty for the nomination. I thank my friends and colleagues, my students. My parents might be in my past, but I thank them too, for giving me the tools to cut my own path.

And finally, I glance over at Jack.

“Dr. Sorensen doesn’t know this, but I sat in the back of his class once. It was long before we became colleagues, back when he was a PhD student. He was teaching an osteology class.” I glance down at the plaque in my hands. A wistful smile ghosts across my face as I recall the thrill of being able to sit and watch from the shadows, to just listen to his voice, this man who had given me the chance to keep going, even though I wasn’t yet sure how to pick up the broken pieces. “It was a time of loss and uncertainty in my life. Watching him guide and excite this group of students with his extensive knowledge and passion for his work inspired me. He mentioned something about scavenger bite marks on bone, and that started the questions in my mind about the animals that left them and their behavior, questions that would eventually lead me here. But that one moment was a lightning strike. It ignited the hope that I too could be something more than what I had lost.” When I turn to him, Jack’s gaze seems trapped on the floor for a moment with a furrowed brow, but I’m waiting to catch it with a smile when he looks up. “So thank you, Jack. You showed me that the sun could still shine, even on the coldest days.”

A moment of time suspends in the flash of a camera. One I’ll remember forever. Jack’s expression, his smile a reflection of my own. The audience, the lights that bathe us in warmth. But it’s not just what I see that becomes branded into memory. It’s the way I feel. Loved not just for my light but for the darkness too, not in spite of it. Grateful, not only for this moment, but for surviving the difficult ones that have gotten me here. Cherished. Luminous.

The moment might pass as the flash falls to shadow, but the feeling still lingers on like a flare in the night.

A few more photos are captured before Jack offers an arm. I lay my palm into the crook of his elbow, his other hand resting over mine, cool and steady on my network of bones. We descend from the stage where he slips back to the table, leaving me to mingle with donors and well-wishers as the next award is announced. And when I return to my seat next to Jack, we only exchange a brief smile before I join his conversation with our colleagues, our fingers laced beneath the table.

We stay only long enough to charm some donors and influential locals, and then we leave for home, a chalet-style log cabin overlooking the North Saskatchewan River on a remote parcel of rugged land. After a full day of work and an evening of socializing, we both slide into bed exhausted, and I fall asleep quickly with the steady drum of Jack’s heart beneath my ear.

And when I wake the next morning, it’s to an empty bed and the scent of coffee.

I stretch, my hand tracking over Jack’s side of the mattress. The sheets are cold.

Cornetto snuffles at the foot of the bed, his tail wisping across the duvet as he rubs his face on the covers and slides up toward me.

“That’s right, Corndog,” I say, patting Jack’s pillow where Cornetto flops to his back for a morning belly rub. “Get your fluff on Jack’s side.”

When Cornetto is satisfied with our morning ritual and hops off the bed to tip-tap downstairs, I roll over, shifting my weight to an elbow to grab the steaming coffee on my nightstand.

Next to it is a small box wrapped in gold paper, the creases clean and precise.

No note. No card. Just a bow in a familiar shade of blue.

I pull the box onto the bed next to me, smiling at the precise wrapping execution before I tear the paper free.

Inside is a worn zippo lighter.

I look at it closely, knowing it’s not the same as the prized trophy Jack sacrificed when he set fire to my old house. The initials S.B. are engraved over a faded flower design. My brow furrows with the mystery as I turn the lighter over in my hand to admire it next to the scar on my thumb before I flick open the lid.

Snap. Flick, snap.

It’s a comforting possession, and I smile with the weight of it in my palm as I fold my fingers around the cold steel. “Thank you, Jack.”

My heart tinkles like chimes behind my bones as I get dressed and slide the lighter into the pocket of my hiking pants to head downstairs with my coffee. There’s no packed lunch waiting, which is my usual clue that Jack is making it a mission for me to find him. As soon as my coffee is done, I’m heading out into the bright March sun, its rays a promise of spring as it reflects on the lingering snow.

Cornetto leads me down the path that winds toward a rocky ridge on the property, weaving a few feet in front of me with his nose to the ground. I pick up Jack’s trail immediately in the melting snow and the frost-heaved gravel, the prints of his Blundstones still fresh enough to see the tread. When we near the ridge and pass the pines, Jack comes into view, standing in the small clearing near the edge of the rocky outcrop with his hands in his pockets. I smile as a fleeting memory of his photo ignites in my thoughts, the one I took of him at West Paine just before I joined the faculty. The moment passes before I think too much about setting it aflame, and I appreciate the view I have now instead. The one where my husband greets our dog before he lifts his silver eyes to mine with a smile.

“You didn’t make it much of a challenge to find you today. That was probably a record. What are you up to, Dr. Sorensen?” I ask, grasping his coat as I rise on my tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips.