Home was an echo. He sat on the floor between two boxes they’d never unpacked because maybe they were waiting for a different marriage to move in.
He wrote her a real letter—paper, pen, the slow kind you can’t unsend. He told the truth without adjectives. He apologized without commas.
He folded it into the sunflower envelope and didn’t add a clever postscript. For once, he let silence do its work after the words finished theirs.
