She told him the next morning, at the kitchen table, with coffee.
All of it — not just the message but the year before, when she'd found Miguel in the Algarve and chosen to do nothing with the finding. She hadn't told him that part before. She'd meant to, in the spirit of the agreement they'd made — everything, nothing filtered — but it had been private in a way that was hard to articulate and she'd deferred.
He listened without interrupting, which she'd come to trust as his particular gift: the ability to receive information entirely before responding to it.
When she finished, he was quiet for a moment.
"You found him a year ago," he said.
"Yes."
"And chose not to reach out."
"Yes."
"And now he's reached out."
"Yes."
"How does that feel?"
She looked at her coffee. "Like finding
