Promis­es I Made and Meant and Broke begins with the nar­ra­tor caught in the after­math of Lark’s trag­ic pass­ing. The nar­ra­tor, still reel­ing from the emo­tion­al upheaval, is vis­it­ed by an ambu­lance dri­ver, some­one who had been famil­iar from past encoun­ters. This brief, almost com­fort­ing moment of recog­ni­tion is short-lived as the police arrive, imme­di­ate­ly cast­ing sus­pi­cion on the nar­ra­tor and ques­tion­ing his involve­ment in the events sur­round­ing Lark’s death. The inter­ro­ga­tion grows intense as they demand details about his rela­tion­ship with Lark, ask­ing about the time­line of the events and any pri­or dis­putes that may have led to this tragedy. Remain­ing calm amidst the accusato­ry atmos­phere, the nar­ra­tor insists on his hap­pi­ness with Lark, pro­vid­ing an ali­bi that revolves around search­ing for a lost dog. The con­ver­sa­tion shifts when the men­tion of Kel­lan aris­es, a man with ties to the dark past, and Werryck’s name also sur­faces, prompt­ing fur­ther sus­pi­cion from the detec­tives. The men­tion of these fig­ures stirs the ten­sion even more, as the detec­tives sus­pect there’s some­thing being with­held from them.

As the inves­ti­ga­tion con­cludes for the night, the lead inves­ti­ga­tor leaves a warn­ing for the nar­ra­tor, sug­gest­ing that he may be har­bor­ing a fugi­tive in Kel­lan, and imply­ing that this will have seri­ous legal con­se­quences. After the inves­ti­ga­tor departs, Maudie, a loy­al friend, offers her solace and a place for the nar­ra­tor to stay, try­ing to shield him from the crush­ing weight of the after­math. How­ev­er, despite her com­fort and the kind­ness of oth­er friends, the nar­ra­tor finds him­self spi­ral­ing into deep iso­la­tion, unable to escape the suf­fo­cat­ing grip of grief. His trou­bled nights are filled with images of Lark and the feel­ing that no mat­ter how much time pass­es, he can’t shake the sor­row that fills the house, where every object speaks to her absence. In an attempt to focus on some­thing tan­gi­ble, the nar­ra­tor finds a blood­ied dog, Vix­en, and nurs­es her back to health. Yet, despite the brief dis­trac­tion that Vix­en offers, the narrator’s sor­row remains unchanged, and he with­draws fur­ther from those who try to offer help, unable to face the over­whelm­ing emo­tions that engulf him.

The house, filled with Lark’s belong­ings, becomes both a sanc­tu­ary and a reminder of every­thing that has been lost. The per­son­al items left behind serve as a painful tes­ta­ment to the life they shared, and yet, the nar­ra­tor can’t seem to find com­fort in them. It becomes clear that no mat­ter how hard he tries to hold on to the mem­o­ry of Lark, her absence is a con­stant, gnaw­ing pres­ence. At one point, the nar­ra­tor finds him­self in the attic, where rem­nants of Kellan’s life are uncov­ered. This dis­cov­ery brings forth a flood of painful mem­o­ries, resur­fac­ing unre­solved issues from the past. Despite the inter­nal chaos, the nar­ra­tor tries to soothe him­self with the use of a mask and reg­u­la­tor, a sym­bol­ic ges­ture that yields no real peace. As the sea­sons shift from sum­mer to fall, the nar­ra­tor with­draws even fur­ther, seek­ing solace in a near­by wood­lot where nature offers a brief reprieve from his emo­tion­al dis­tress. Despite the tem­po­rary calm, the mem­o­ries of Lark con­tin­ue to haunt him, and one day, a vivid rec­ol­lec­tion of a boat trip they had tak­en togeth­er resur­faces in his mind. This trig­gers an urgent need to vis­it the boat shed, where the boat, once an emblem of their adven­tures, now stands aban­doned and gath­er­ing dust. The sight of the boat acts as a poignant reminder of a time lost to the pas­sage of time, a sym­bol of promis­es made, mem­o­ries shared, and the weight of loss that the nar­ra­tor is still strug­gling to bear. The jour­ney to the boat shed marks a turn­ing point in the narrator’s emo­tion­al jour­ney, as the boat—once a source of con­nec­tion and hope—now serves as a stark reminder of the promis­es that were made, the ones that were meant to be kept, and ulti­mate­ly, those that were bro­ken.