After she died, I stopped entering it.
Claire eventually changed the flowers, opened the curtains, and kept the room tidy.
But nobody used it.
We walked there together.
Daniel remained connected through Claire’s phone.
The room smelled faintly of cedar
and old paper.
Anne’s writing desk stood beside the windows.
Harrison crouched in front of it.
“There was a false panel in the bottom drawer.”
Claire blinked.
“You’re joking.”
“Your mother enjoyed knowing one thing nobody else knew.”
That, too, sounded like Anne.
Harrison removed the drawer.
Pressed two wooden tabs.
A narrow panel lifted.
Inside was a bundle of envelopes tied with a faded blue ribbon.
Claire sat down abruptly.
“Oh.”
There was something almost sacred about seeing Anne’s handwriting again.
Not a scanned signature.
Not a legal document.
Her handwriting.
Real and impatient and slightly slanted.
Several envelopes were labeled with names.
CLAIRE.
DANIEL.
