Damien's POV
That night I read the Portugal entry.
Sophia sat beside me on the bed with her knees pulled up and the journal open between us and read it aloud in the quiet voice she used for things that mattered, not performed, just present, her mother's words in her mother's handwriting becoming something spoken.
The bakery. The table outside. The cat on the wall. My father saying this is the kind of place you come back to and her thinking yes and holding it quietly because it wasn't ready to be words yet.
I listened without interrupting.
When she finished she closed the journal and held it against her chest and looked at the window.
The city was doing the late evening thing outside. Quieter than itself. The particular version of it that only existed after ten when most of what neede
