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My resolve hardened, and I decided to tell him. “It’s the scent. You know, the one I keep smelling.”

Warily, I gauged his response. His brow furrowed and he sniffed the air, but I could tell it was to humor me.

“I can’t smell anything except old-paint dust.”

“It comes and goes. I don’t know what it is. It was here just a moment ago, but now it’s gone.” This was the longest sentence I’d uttered all day.

Dylan’s face registered his surprise.

“I can’t detect anything, Emily. I’ve never smelled anything odd here. How often do you notice it?”

“Regularly. Several times yesterday and on the first day I was here.”

“Are you experiencing any headaches?”

“No.” I shook my head for emphasis.

“Did you hit your head at all? Is your vision disturbed? Are there any other symptoms?”

“No!” I snapped. You’ve got this wrong. I’m not ill.

He leaned back, surprised, I think, by my outburst. “Well, it’s odd. Perhaps I should run some tests on you.” He stepped toward me, looking into my eyes, and I took an immediate step back so he stopped.

“I’m fine, honestly.” I held up my hand to keep him at arm’s length, and he frowned but handed me a mug of tea as he regarded me intently.

After a moment, he gave me a brisk nod. “You’re anything but fine. But I’ll go with it for now.” He took a slurp of his tea. “If you smell it again, let me know. I’ll see if I can identify it for you.”

I decided not to mention the scent to him again. Ever.

By early afternoon, Dylan decreed the room was ready for paint. He would start on the undercoat on the ceiling and I could start on the walls.

After that, time lost all meaning.

I didn’t know if this happened because of the decorating or because of my grief. But hours turned into days of painting and more painting, and they blended together like rose and gold.

But there were highlights that would stay with me. The first lick of rose paint on the ceiling and how pretty it looked, then the small bubble of pleasure when Dylan finished the ceiling with that first coat and it glowed in the evening sun.

Dylan stepping in the tray of paint—now that was funny and him flicking emulsion at me because I laughed… a lot, for the first time. I didn’t think I’d ever get it out of my hair, and I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. He laughed too.

And when I finished the east wall in the darker pink and how well it complemented the rose color. That was a good hour or so.

Over those few days, Doctor Dyl and I settled into a routine. We rose early. We had breakfast. Well, he had breakfast; I had tea and, under his watchful eye, a daily struggle to eat a slice of toast. We painted. I tried to eat the lunch Dylan placed in front of me and not just chase it around my plate with my cutlery; Dylan would become exasperated. We’d argue, and I’d eat a little more. We painted all afternoon. He would eat supper, and I’d eat a morsel to appease him. Afterward, I’d go for a walk. When I returned, I’d head to bed or continue painting.

On day three of decorating, the bedroom furniture arrived, flat packed as was the IKEA way. It was stored temporarily in one of the empty, yet-to-be-decorated rooms upstairs along with my packing cases and cello.

During this time, Numb would come and go. I liked it best when she was around; the white noise would accompany her, mostly at a low hum—occasionally louder, occasionally quieter, but ever present. On those days she was with me, I didn’t have to think too deeply, and I wasn’t constantly reminded that I’d lost my ability to connect to the world because I’d lost my connection to the world. That connection was my family.

My beloved family.

On the days Numb was absent, the pain was insufferable—a rippling hole in my hollowed-out insides.

But painting helped, and at night I’d go to bed exhausted, hoping to fall asleep immediately. Doctor Dyl would no longer give me sleeping pills, and I didn’t ask him, even though I was at my most vulnerable during those nocturnal hours.

Sometimes I cried myself to sleep under the watchful, unseeing eyes of my parents and Billy, who laughed with me from their photograph. But the nights I inhaled the strange fragrance, I slept well, seduced by the enticing, mysterious aroma. It was both calming and reassuring. I’d noticed it was only present when Dylan wasn’t around. As soon as he was near, it evaporated, as if it were never there. I couldn’t understand why, but I kept my promise to myself and didn’t mention it to him again.

By Friday, day five of decorating, we’d finished painting the walls and all the woodwork. I now had a backdrop to paint the leaves and vines I wanted to do, and the carpet fitters were scheduled to arrive that morning. I’d decided to stay with Doctor Dyl’s coarse carpet, which meant I didn’t have to make any more decisions. Dylan informed me it was called seagrass. I liked the plain color, even though it was rough on my feet.

Over breakfast that morning, while the carpet fitters started their work, Dylan mentioned school again.