She tried the enzyme cleaner. Nothing happened for a day. Then, slowly, the hair became limp, then soft, then—nothing. It had been digested. Eaten by microscopic creatures. Too intimate.

It was time. But time needed a little help. Sometimes, you have to pour the pellets in yourself.

She sat on the cool tile floor. Her own hair—a blonde so pale it was nearly white—fell over her shoulders. She picked up a strand that had shed on her sweatshirt. Held it between two fingers.

She took the box to the bathroom. She didn’t use lye. She used the slow, biological method. She filled the bathtub with hot water and a cheap bottle of enzyme cleaner. And she lowered the box in, piece by piece. The paper softened. The ink bled. The cardboard slumped into gray pulp. It took all night.

Finally, she went back to the lye. The white pellets. She dropped a single, long black strand of Paul’s hair into the mason jar. Added a teaspoon of pellets. Poured cold water over it. Then she just watched.

She sat with the jar in her hands. The sun moved across the floor.