He can’t remember faces; never could. He remembers voices, movements, the unique traces everyone leaves in space and time.
(He remembers hers so vividly sometimes that if he closed his eyes he’d swear she was there.)
He remembers details: the golden hair framing her face, the wide eyes, the smile—but the only image he has of her whole face is the broken clock, the drawing they’d glimpsed in Paris.
(Broken to pieces now; out of time.)
The crack in time. When Amy asks, he almost wonders—but no.
But when she’s weeping, not knowing why, he thinks, I understand.