“You want me to keep you company?”
I should say no.
Should thank him and send him home before this begins to matter too much.
But the truth is, I want him here.
I want his voice in the room.
I want the way he makes me feel ...safe.Protected.Not alone.
“Please,” I say, “if I keep avoiding them, I’ll never figure out why I have to go through these boxes.”
He glances over, carefully.Like he’s trying to read me without pressing too hard.“You sure?”
No.
Not at all.
But facing a letter is easier than figuring out whatever this quiet, terrifying thing between us is.Easier than admitting that every time he looks at me like I’m more than a passing moment, I want to pull him in and beg him to kiss me.
He doesn’t move closer.Doesn’t drift away either.He stays in that space he’s carved beside me these past few days—close enough to feel, never close enough to ruin.
I reach for a new envelope.
The paper is thinner this time, the crease soft like it’s been unfolded too many times.The ink is lighter, faded, as if it were written in low light or with a pen running dry.
“October twenty-seventh,” I whisper, running my thumb along the edge before sliding it open.
This letter feels different.
Lighter.
As if time thinned it.Or maybe grief did.
I begin to read.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
October 27, 1967
My Lina,
You askedhow long the nights are here.
I think the better question is how long the days can feel without you in them.
Someone joked yesterday that this place devours time.That minutes stretch and fold in odd ways, like they don’t know how to behave.I laughed because it was easier than admitting I understood exactly what he meant.
I have this feeling sometimes, in my chest and in my bones, like something is closing in.It’s like a sense that the clock is moving faster around me than it is for everyone else.
Like I’m racing something I can’t see.
And still ...
My mind keeps drifting to the future we whispered about.The one we made sounds so easy: the tiny house, the squeaky gate, the garden you swore you’d ruin but promised to try anyway.The way you said you wanted a daughter with my stubbornness and your eyes.A boy with my hair and your laugh.
I hold those things close, tighter than I probably should.They keep me moving when exhaustion crawls up my spine and tries to pin me down.They make the long hours bearable.They make this place feel less like an endless corridor and more like something I can walk through.
