Sleep isn't happening tonight, so I stop pretending and spread all three notes across the bed instead.
Under the lamp, side by side, the handwriting on the last two looks less like a stranger's scrawl and more like something I've actually seen before. Not the words. The shape of the letters, the way the T's cross low and the loops run tight.
My notebook comes first. Then the leftover wedding invitations. After that, old birthday cards Lena sent me years ago, a note from my mother, anything with ink on it.
Nothing.
The handwriting keeps nagging at me anyway.
The memory finds me at breakfast, of all places, while I'm only half listening to Mrs. Calloway read off the day's deliveries.
She scribbles something on a scrap of paper for one of the kitchen staff, a grocery list, quick and fun
