Clara leaned against me, crying silently.
Daniel’s voice was gentle but firm. “These could change the ownership history.”
“I don’t care about ownership right now,” I whispered.
And I didn’t.
For the first time in years, the story was not only about what Jason took.
It was about what my mother left.
I opened one notebook.
On the first page, written in blue ink, were words addressed to me.
Iris asks questions other people walk past. One day, that will either frighten people or save them. I hope she never lets anyone convince her to stop.
I pressed my hand over the page and wept.
This grief was different. Clean, somehow. Not less painful, but honest. My mother’s voice had reached me at last, not through memory, not through someone else’s version of her, but in her own handwriting.
