Morgan pressed the envelope to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut.
Just try. Just reach for it. You have to know.
But knowing meant confirming. And confirming meant accepting that everything Randall had poured into her skull might have permanently displaced the only memories that mattered. That Ms. Delacroix—the first person who’d ever looked at her like she was more than a case file number—might be gone forever. Reduced to facts without feeling. A name without a face.
Her throat closed around something sharp.
You survived the box. You survived Randall. You can survive this.
She reached.
The memory resisted at first. She could feel herself straining toward it, the way someone strained toward a word on the tip of their tongue. Randall’s coordinates tried to flood in instead—47.6062, the opening digits surfacing automatically—and she shoved them aside with something like violence.
Not you. Not now. I wanther.
And then?—
Ms. Delacroix’s face. Clear. Complete. The exact shade of brown in her eyes, somewhere between coffee and honey. The particular crinkles at the corners when she smiled—not generic laugh lines, buthers, asymmetrical, deeper on the left side. The small scar near her temple from a childhood accident she’d mentioned once over tea. The way her silver hair caught the afternoon light in the library, turning almost gold.
Morgan’s hands flew to her mouth.
She could see the first letter in her mind now. Not just the words but the paper itself—cream-colored, slightly textured, a coffee ring in the upper left corner where Ms. Delacroix had set down her mug while writing. The little star drawn in the margin, five points slightly uneven because her mentor had never been able to draw a straight line. The way the ink had bled somewhat on the wordextraordinarybecause the pen had paused there.
My dearest Morgan, I wanted to write because I believe in the extraordinary person you’re becoming…
Word for word. Letter for letter. The way the lowercase g’s looped and the t’s crossed slightly above center and the whole thing had smelled like lavender and old books when she’d first unfolded it.
She didn’t have to read it. It was all there, in her mind. Every bit of it,perfect.
Morgan laughed. The words pouring through her brain like they always had. Just there. Ready to be plucked off her mental shelves whenever she wanted.
Now that she wasn’t constantly pulling up evidence facility locations and military designations, there was room again. Space for Ms. Delacroix to exist. Space for everything that mattered.
“Morgan? Are you okay?”
Lincoln’s voice came from the doorway. She looked up,knowing the tears streaming down her face had to look like sadness.
He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees in front of her. His hands hovered near her arms, wanting to touch but not sure if he should. “What happened? Are you hurt? Should I call Dr. Annie? Tell me what’s?—”
“I can see her face.”
He went still.
“Ms. Delacroix.” Morgan’s voice kept breaking, but she couldn’t stop talking. “The exact color of her eyes. The scar near her temple. The way she smiled. I thought—” She had to stop, had to breathe through another wave of tears. “I thought I’d lost her. I thought all that data had pushed her out permanently. But I can see her, Lincoln. I can seeeverything.”
She watched him process it. Watched the fear drain from his expression and something else take its place—not just relief but recognition. Like he understood exactly what this meant to her.
“I’m whole again.” She reached out, cupped his jaw in her palm. “Changed, but whole. You gave me that.”
Lincoln didn’t answer. Just turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm—a gesture so tender and unexpected that fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
They stayed like that for a long moment. His breath warm against her skin. Her hand curved around his face. The letter crinkled between them, proof that some things, once truly held, couldn’t be taken away.
When Morgan finally lowered her hand, the question she’d been avoiding rose up to fill the silence.
What now?
She could feel it hanging between them, unasked. Her name was cleared. Her freedom restored. She could goanywhere. Do anything. Return to Montana and the apartment with its converted barn charm and bookshelves full of memories. The library might take her back—the charges were false, the truth was out. She had options. For the first time since that parking garage in Montana, her future stretched open and undefined.
