His Soul In My Recovery System

Summary

The third spring since Edison left has arrived, uninvited.

I’m standing on the balcony of the twenty-fourth floor. The wind whistles through my clothes, clawing at my skin like it wants to peel me apart. Outside, the world is aggressively coming back to life—buds bursting, grass pushing through the thaw—but I’m just a piece of rotting timber, stagnant and moldy.

My therapist used to say that spring is the danger zone for people like me. There’s a violent disconnect between the vibrancy of the world and the stillness of a dead soul.