Miriam folded the letter carefully and placed it back inside its envelope, her hands lingering on the paper as though reluctant to let go. Around her, the attic seemed less ominous than it once had, less a locked vault of shadows and more a quiet room filled with truths too heavy for him to carry aloud.
She sat there for a long time, the journal and letter resting in her lap, her tears drying into salt on her cheeks. There would be no apology, no warm embrace, no years returned to her. But there was an explanation, and in its raw imperfection, a strange kind of closure.