His words were a ghost train of memories I had long since derailed. Paris. The clumsy, rain-soaked first date. The promises whispered in the dark. He was trying to resurrect a woman who had been buried under the weight of a thousand tiny betrayals. He was performing an exorcism in reverse, attempting to summon a spirit of forgiveness that no longer inhabited this body.
I looked down at the top of his head, at the strands of hair disheveled by his anguish, and felt an immense, glacial calm. The storm was not inside me. It was outside, a pathetic squall contained entirely within the man kneeling on my floor.
"A mistake?" I repeated, my voice devoid of inflection. "A mistake is taking the wrong turn on the freeway, Julian. A mistake is forgetting to pick up milk. Systematically siphoning fu
