Three years ago, Eleanor Hart's husband died on an ordinary Tuesday. Since then she has built a life that passes, from the outside, for whole.
She edits novels. She answers her sister's worried calls. She takes the long way through the garden square so she never has to sit on the bench where she and Lucas once did.
She is surviving.
She is not, in any way she would admit, alive.
Then a stranger on a park bench asks her for directions, and something she'd spent three years holding perfectly still begins, impossibly, to thaw.
What follows is eight months Eleanor will never fully be able to explain to anyone - not her sister, not her closest friend, perhaps not even herself. A love that arrives exactly when she needs it, shaped uncannily to the size of what she lost. A tenderness that starts, slowly, to give back everything grief had taken from her.
And a quiet, growing question she cannot put down: what is actually happening to her, and what will it cost her to find out.
A hushed, devastating novel about grief, love, and the lengths the heart will go to keep us in the world.