Her mother is gone. Ask tomorrow if she slept.
Page after page, year after year, in handwriting that had grown slightly shakier over time but never less careful.
Her mother is gone.
Every small thing I thought nobody had registered, Charles had written down like it mattered.
Because to him, it had.
***
At the very back of the notebook was a folded letter, my name written on the front in the same handwriting.
I sat down on a bench outside the chapel and read it.
He wrote that he knew what people said about us. The jokes, the comments, the way some of them looked at me with a kind of pity for sitting with the janitor every day.
Charles had written down like it mattered.
He said he never minded because none of them understood what they were looking at.
Then I reached the last page.
Something slipped out and landed in my lap.
