Ester R. Mercado. 1991–(indefinite). Cause of death: She wasn’t. She just kept living. And that was the most terrifying thing B had ever seen.
B thought about it. He thought about the yellow raincoat. The cracked-bell laugh. The shadow on the rib.
The city noise faded. A dog barked three blocks away. A tricycle driver cursed at a pothole. Two people stood on a staircase, holding the weight of their own endings.
His editor laughed at him. “Love isn’t a cause of death, B. It’s a cause of stupidity.”
He touched her fingers. Cold. Small. Real.