It wasn’t fear, at least not exactly.
It was a memory—cold and sudden, like a breeze down your spine on a quiet day.
The photo from the envelope still sat in my nightstand drawer.
I had hidden it there days ago, the plain white envelope folded around it like a protective shell, But still it burned in my thoughts.
That cracked staircase, the broken window, the place I used to shrink myself into.
Raymond noticed I wasn’t sleeping well, but he didn’t push, not until that morning.
We were in the middle of folding laundry when I caught myself staring at the wall.
“Naomi,” he said, voice low,“You’ve not been yourself lately, Talk to me.”
I hesitated for a while.
Then I reached into the drawer and pulled out the photo.
Raymond took it silently, turning it over in his hand.
“Your old
