“I’m angry,” Clara said into my shoulder.
“You’re allowed.”
“I missed him.”
“I did too.”
“What if he’s not who we remember?”
That question frightened me more than the rest.
Because memory can be a sanctuary, but it can also be a painting left too long in the sun. The colors change. You don’t notice until someone brings in the original and nothing matches.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Clara pulled back, wiping her cheeks. “Then we find out together.”
Together.
It was a small word. A bridge word.
I reached for the evidence sleeve containing her old letters and placed it on the table.
“These are yours,” I said.
She stared down at them, confused.
Then she recognized the handwriting.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
