The apartment smelled faintly of citrus and cardboard; he’d been repacking things into smaller boxes—ten neat cubes of what used to be a life. Each box had a label in his careful handwriting: memories, receipts, a lopsided mug, a cassette of a mixtape that started with a song they both pretended to hate. He called the pile “repack” on purpose, as if rearranging could alter weight.