It had been exactly one year since Ian stepped here inside his home. A thick layer of dust suctioned itself to every surface. A tickle formed in his throat, and he grabbed his inhaler from his backpack before he gave himself a self-induced asthma attack. His vintage furniture was all left exactly as he’d left it. Like time had simply come to a complete halt, regardless of the passing months.

He vowed that when he returned, he would be a changed man.

He would be the first person to prove that it was possible to out-run grief. That if you kept your mind focused with new experiences, eventually the memories from the past would all but fade away.

He started in one corner of the apartment, cleaning his way from one end to the other while he maintained a stoic expression. He was halfway through unpacking the new dishes he’d bought from Italy when he heard a knock on the front door.

It was Bea’s brother. Ian hardly recognized him. He’d lost half of his weight, his eyes were sunk in, and his lips dry and cracked. He looked like the living embodiment of grief.

The last time he’d spoken to Brendon was when Bea was still in the hospital. Brendon had sent a message to Ian shortly after Bea passed. Ian had already left halfway across the globe and ignored his message, hoping his silence would send a clear message. Brendon’s messages became more frequent, some of them endless paragraphs. Brendon continuously demanded an explanation from Ian, explaining how he could leave his sister in a coma and when she was pronounced brain dead days later, Ian never made any effort to keep in contact. As if Bea’s existence no longer mattered now that she was gone. No matter how many questions Brendon asked, Ian never responded giving any answers. Eventually, Brendon gave up, and there was no further contact between them. That was a year ago.

Brendon glanced past Ian at the mound of dusty tarps in the middle of the floor. “Just got back?”

Ian nodded.

“I’m surprised you even came back.”

Brendon, pushed past Ian and set the box he’d been holding down on the counter. The box was covered with its own dust coating. “It’s Bea’s,” he said as he laid its contents across the counter.

“I don’t want any of her things,” Ian snapped. Brendon set one of her snow globes down on the counter beside him, clearly as annoyed with Ian as Ian was with him.

“If it were up to me, you would be the last person I’d give any of her things too. But she left a note, insisting.” he stops, and goes to the window. All of Bea’s favorite t-shirts are laid out across his counter and Ian’s lips begin to quiver. On the top of the pile sits a shirt with a lobster with a chef’s hat on, one of Bea’s favorites. Ian can still hear her laugh when she first discovered that shirt at gift shop. “Have you ever seen anything so cute?” she’d said.

Ian grabs the shirt off the counter, bringing it to his cheek. Bea’s scent is still embedded in the fabric, however faint. For a moment, he forgets about the fight they had, the hash words they threw at each other, neither knowing it would be the last words shared between them.

Brendon pulls out a chair from the table, remaining silent. He watches Ian grab all of Bea’s shirts, one by one, bringing them all to his chest. He wants to be angry at him. He wants to punish the only man his sister loved, for leaving her. Instead, he cries.

Ian sits across from Brendon, still holding onto all of her shirts. His cheeks are wet.

“I was angry,” Ian whispers after a long silence.

“I know.”

He sets the shirts on the table. “She was not going to wake up.”

Brendon knew that too, but he still can’t acknowledge that, so he only nods his head in agreement.

“If I could run, if I could travel, if I could immerse myself in a new world…” this is the first time Ian accepts that he was wrong. He could not out-run his grief. “I thought I could out-run the pain of loosing her too.”

Brendon focuses on the large clock leaning against the far wall. The clock face is too dusty to read, but he watches the pendulum swing back and forth without a sound. He remembers helping Ian up the stairs that day, he and Ian each holding an end, while Bea carefully guided them.

Ian’s gaze follows Brendon’s. “She loved that clock.”

“You both loved that clock. Are you going to get rid of it?”

Picking at his hands, Ian shrugs. Bea’s presence is in every crack here, in every crevice of this apartment. It was why he had to leave. Equally they shared the apartment, but Ian knew it was Bea that brought life into this place. Her personality is everywhere. It’s in her collection of coffee mugs held in the cupboard, in the throw pillows she has in storage totes.

Brendon’s voice cuts through Ian’s thoughts. “I hope you’ll keep it.”

After Brendon leaves, Ian sits on the couch, his feet aching. The silence amplifies his grief, and he turns on the record player in order to drown it out. Instrumental music plays through the speaker - the last record Bea ever played - and with every note, Ian hears her. He hears her laugh in the high notes, and her cries in the low ones.

“I miss you, Bea,” he calls out when the song finishes. His voice bounces off the walls, and he is met with silence. “I’m sorry, Bea. I’m sorry I tried to outrun your memory.”

As Ian finishes his apology, the grandfather clock strikes, rendering Ian speechless. “Bea?” He checks the time on his phone. It’s a little past midnight, but nowhere near the next hour. “I love you, Bea.”

The clock strikes one final time in response.