Damian
He read his mother's letters alone.
He had intended to wait — to read them later, in the east wing, after the day's work was finished and the penthouse had settled into its nighttime quiet. He had intended to be considered about it, the way he was considered about most things, approaching it with the appropriate preparation. He had been carrying his mother's absence for fifteen years with a particular quality of controlled discipline, the grief structured and load-bearing and placed precisely where it could support rather than destabilise. He had learned to live inside the architecture of her loss without being destroyed by it.
He had not anticipated what it would feel like to hold her handwriting.
He made it three steps into his study before he sat down on the floor with his
