On the fifth morning, an envelope waited against the door, held down by a flat river stone. Sunflower sticker. His hands shook before he touched it.
Inside: the charm, a note in Sarah’s quick, slanted hand. Got your letter. Thank you for not making me chase your apology. I need time. Stop asking me to laugh at things that hurt. I’ll reach out when I have breath again.
No threats. No promises. The exact size and shape of hope you can hold without cutting yourself on the edges.
