For years, choices had been taken from me so gradually that I had stopped noticing their absence. What to wear. Who to see. Which doctor to trust. Which memories were acceptable. Which questions made me “difficult.”
Now choice stood in front of me like a door without a lock.
I reached for the phone.
Evelyn Mitchell stepped forward, all the color gone from her face.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
That single word made my fingers steady.
I answered.
At first, there was only silence.
Not empty silence. Breathing. Faint, careful, as if the person on the other end had been holding the phone for a long time but had not expected the call to connect.
“Hello?” I said.
A man inhaled sharply.
Then a voice, older and rougher than the one in my memories, spoke my name.
