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There was a case in my second year where the skeletal remains of a man were found with a wedding band still on his finger. It was slightly warped. Repaired twice, judging by the seams.

That ring told me more about his life than his fracture patterns ever could.

It suggested longevity. Repair instead of replacement. It spoke of a decision made, and then made again, to keep something rather than start over.

I photographed it, sealed it in a bag.

What happened to it after that is considerably less relevant.

But I thought about it enough to understand why attachment is a liability. Once you begin caring about the person behind the evidence, you risk wanting things the evidence cannot give you.

Answers that don’t exist.

Endings that feel adequate.

The same could be said for relationships, though at least the dead have the decency to stay exactly where you left them.

I give the silver band another absent turn beneath my thumb.

I look at Mara again.

Finally, I exhale. Long. Resigned.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll come back. I’ll consult.”

Mara’s shoulders drop, relief overtaking her features.

“Thank you,” she says. “Seriously.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m still going to be unpleasant about this.”

She laughs.

I remember that sound from locker rooms and backseats and late nights when the world hadn’t fucking stomped on us yet.

“Oh,” she adds, glancing sideways, suddenly too casual.

It’s a clumsy shift that Lila would’ve called out before the words even left Mara’s mouth. Lila has a habit of psychoanalyzing everyone from her barista to her best friends, and right now, she’d be having a field day with how blatantly Mara is preparing for turbulence.

“I should warn you.”

That tone never precedes good news.

My eye twitches.

“There’s an annoying-as-fuck investigative podcaster snooping around.”

I grimace. “Which one?”

“I think it’s called Casket Case.” Mara shrugs. “I’m sure he likes the sound of his own voice, but they’ll get bored and fuck back off to wherever they came from. They always do.”

Something in my gut tells me that confidence is premature.

I end the call before Mara can say anything else that will require a response. Then I sit there, phone face down on the desk.

Forensic anthropology is not about death.

It’s about context.