Something in his voice cracked through my defenses. Not guilt. Not obligation.
Weariness.
So I went.
Not to say goodbye. Not to forgive.
Christianity
Just to help my father.
The Box I Almost Didn’t Open
Her apartment was quiet in that way spaces become when someone has been gone just long enough for the air to settle. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing was alive.
As we sorted through drawers and closets, memories surfaced uninvited. A sweater I remembered borrowing. A book we used to fight over. Evidence of a life that had continued without me.
Then, at the back of a closet, I found the box.
It was small. Unremarkable.
