One side had already begun collapsing inward.
He peeled the wet tape away.
The cardboard tore beneath his fingers.
Inside were albums wrapped in thin paper.
Framed photographs.
Envelopes.
Several loose pictures Linda had placed between sheets of tissue.
Water had found them.
Marcus's hands froze.
He pulled the first album free.
The cover was damp.
The pages inside were protected.
He let out a breath.
Then he saw the photograph beneath it.
5 by 7.
Matte finish.
Marcus at 24.
James Reed beside him.
The picture had been taken after Marcus finished his first year as a police officer.
His father stood in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
One broad hand resting on Marcus's shoulder.
James was 56 in the photograph.
Still strong.
Still working.
Still convinced his son would one day do something bigger than Marcus himself could imagine.
Marcus had forgotten who took the picture.
He remembered everything else.
The heat that afternoon.
James teasing him about how stiff he looked in uniform.
The smell of grilled onions coming from a neighbor's yard.
His father's exact words after the picture was taken.
Don't let that badge make you forget what it's for.
The corner of the photograph was wet.
Marcus lifted it carefully.
The backing had begun to separate.
A thin bubble of water moved beneath the image.
"No."
The word came out almost silently.
He laid the photograph flat on the counter.
Took a dry dish towel from a box nearby.
Blotted around the edges.
Not across the image.
His hands knew enough to be careful.
Not enough to stop what had already begun.
The lower corner curled.
James's hand on Marcus's shoulder remained clear.
His face remained clear.
For now.
Marcus pressed his fingertips against the counter.
His breathing slowed.
Then stopped.
His hands trembled.
Outside, Susan was still talking.
Her voice carried faintly through the open front door.
Something about rules.
Something about respect.
Something about the neighborhood.
Marcus barely heard her.
He looked at his father's face.
James had died at 71.
Marcus had spent years believing he had made peace with that.
He had not.
Loss did not leave.
It changed rooms.
Sometimes it waited quietly until a photograph got wet in an empty kitchen.
Marcus swallowed hard.
"Come on, Dad."
He lifted the picture again and moved it toward the driest patch of counter.
Another photograph had taken water along one edge.
A picture of Marcus and Linda at an anniversary dinner.
Another of James standing beside the old Ford years before Marcus inherited his tools.
Marcus removed them one by one.
Carefully.
Patiently.
The way he had helped Helen carry groceries that morning.
The way he had spent most of his life handling other people's emergencies while trying not to create one of his own.
Outside, Daniel's voice rose.
"You damaged his property."
Susan answered something Marcus couldn't make out.
Helen finally said, "Susan, stop."