He rents himself a little rundown apartment in Denver, and over time arranges it in the pattern of their little house, like he's living in a shoebox diorama of a fairytale scene. He makes the coffee the way she'd made the coffee, and sits down in the chair with the yellowed, crack-spined paperback perpetually splayed open over its arm. He turns on the lamp and draws the window shade down; sometimes the sun on the mountains is blinding, like the sun on the sea.
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