flip-flops (8)

What was left was salt. After a long time, she stood. And for the first time since it happened, she walked the path to the shed, grabbed the garden trowel, and started digging.

It wasn’t ceremonial. She didn’t speak. Just worked until the hole looked deep enough to hold something that had once held a person. She placed the flip-flops inside. Laid them flat. Covered them back up. Nothing changed.

The world did not shift. The wind did not whisper thank you. But the act itself — the burying—felt like an answer to a question she hadn’t been ready to ask.