Ethan follows Faith—the woman he loved eighteen years ago, the woman he believed was dead—through the misty streets of Seattle to the Space Needle.

They crash a stranger’s fiftieth-anniversary party, hundreds of feet above the city. Seattle glows beneath them. The past feels suddenly, impossibly close. And while Ethan is trying to reconcile the girl he remembers with the woman standing in front of him, Faith begins to explain where she has been.

I wanted Proof of Sanity to feel like Ethan’s mind in that moment: something recognizable breaking apart at the edges.

The Space Needle rises through fragments of Faith's old letters to Ethan, while a torn dictionary page offers definitions of sanity, reason, and soundness of mind. Rain falls across everything, blurring the boundaries between memory and reality.

Everyone in this story is searching for proof—proof of love, proof of identity, proof of what happened, proof that what they see and remember can be trusted.

But what counts as proof when you can no longer trust your own certainty?