Douglas was awake when we entered.
He looked from Lucas to me, then to the envelope in my hand.
“You found it,” he said.
“Margaret brought it.”
His face tightened.
“I should have given it to you myself.”
“You should have given me many things yourself.”
“I know.”
Lucas placed the wooden box on the chair and stepped toward the door.
Douglas looked at him.
“Stay.”
Lucas hesitated, then sat beside the window.
I took the chair near the bed.
For a few moments, we simply looked at one another.
The years between us were not invisible anymore. They had become something tangible, something we could name: letters withheld, truths delayed, choices made by frightened parents, and our own long obedience to a story that had never belonged entirely to either of us.
“I read my mother’s letter,” I said.
Douglas nodded.
“I found your mother’s recording.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
