She read the whole thing from the beginning.
It was a Thursday afternoon, Ranon in a meeting and the house in its midday quiet, and she took the notebook from the drawer and sat at the desk and opened it to the first page and read. She read with the attention she brought to things that mattered, completely and without skipping anything, without moving faster through the uncomfortable entries because they were uncomfortable.
The first entry was dated six weeks ago. Clinical shorthand, tightly organized, the handwriting of someone with a professional relationship to language who was using that relationship as distance. She read it and recognized the writer and found the writer slightly alien. Not wrong. Just a version of herself from a vantage point she had since moved past.
She kept reading.
