Sophia's POV
I read the second journal on Thursday night.
Same window seat. Same time. The city doing its three in the morning quiet outside.
Damien was asleep this time. Properly asleep, the deep kind, and I didn't wake him because some things needed to be read alone first before they were ready to be shared.
My mother in Portugal.
She wrote about the village exactly as Mei had described it. The right size. Not too big to get lost in. Not too small to disappear. She wrote about the bakery and the bread and a cat that sat in the same spot every morning on a wall outside a yellow house like it had decided that was its particular purpose and nobody had argued with it.
She wrote about my father sitting across from her at a small table outside and saying this is the kind of place you com
