"I don't know," Watson says, honestly. "I could say any sort of empty platitudes about it, but I doubt you want to hear them." He certainly never did in her place. "And no one ever said you had to either move or or accept it, as though moving on from grief is something we can do at our will anyway."

He waves a hand vaguely and takes a pastry of his own to dip in his coffee. "Be angry. Compose a sonnet in his memory. Dress in the blackest clothes you can find in Tommy Bahama and haunt the sports deck. Maybe we will work out a way to bring him back, and maybe we won't, but my God, I hate that term. 'Move on.'"