Julia didn't talk about that night.
Not to her sister. Not to anyone.
She had folded it up carefully, the way you folded something fragile, and put it somewhere deep where daily life couldn't reach it. Five years of practice had made her almost believe it didn't exist anymore.
Almost.
But tonight, after Margaret had gone and Nora was asleep and the apartment was quiet in that particular way that left too much room for thinking it came back.
The way it always did when she let her guard down.
Five years ago.
She'd been twenty-one and new to the city in the way that felt exciting for exactly three weeks before it started feeling lonely.
She had a job at a hotel — front desk, evening shift, the kind of work that paid just enough and asked just enough that you didn't have energy left f
