“The chart says seven,” the therapist teased.
“Seven plus two in my head,” she shot back.
My mouth tugged into a smile. “Then we’ll allow head-steps today.”
Her laughter was small and bright, the sound of sunlight breaking through old storms.
That night, I opened the same drawer again. The box still sat there—empty except for the lone blue bead. I took it out, rolling it between my fingers. It was smooth and cool, worn by years of pain and memory.
I remembered her laughter again, the way Adeline’s fingers had brushed against mine when we picked the beads from the sand. The way she’d leaned into me and whispered, “Promise me we’ll always come back.”
I had promised.
And now, every time I look at that stone, it feels like mockery. She’d left me with the weight of every vow we’d made. I
