Clara did not open the letter right away.
She carried it with her home, wax seal jammed between her fingers, warm from her hand but heavier than something that small should be.
She did not look at Damien.
She did not speak.
Her thoughts circled like steamed glass , vague, redundant, weighed down with unformed concern.
He waited for her to say something.
She didn't.
Not until they pulled back into the estate, and she climbed out of the car silently, stalking straight into the room where the fire still glowed softly.
She sat cross-legged on the rug, coat still in place.
Damien stood in the doorway, his gaze on her.
Her voice was husky. "He gave me this."
Damien's eyes fell to the envelope in her hand.
His breath caught , barely.
"He said it's a memory," she said. "Of her."
