Sabrina's handwriting was small and elegant, each letter formed with the kind of care that suggested she'd been writing this way since she first held a pen. No printed perfection, no typed efficiency. Actual ink on actual paper, and the slight variation in pressure told me she'd written this slowly, thinking about each word.
The note said:
"My father left me a letter I haven't opened yet. It's in the box I showed you. When this is over, I want you to be there when I read it. Not because I need someone. Because I want you."
Below the message, she'd drawn a single rose in ink. The petals were detailed enough to cast shadows.
I read the note three times. Then I folded it and put it in my wallet, behind Iris's photo and next to Vivienne's appendix page. The wallet was getting crowded with things that mattered. Six months ago the only thing in there was a fake ID for the bar and a twenty-dollar bill I kept for emergencies.
Times change.
