Roman found it again on Saturday morning.
He had moved it from the closet to his nightstand the day he discovered it and had not touched it since. It sat there all week next to his phone charger, small and dark green, the cover worn soft at the corners. Isabella had not asked about it. He had not mentioned it.
She went to brunch at eleven. The apartment went quiet.
He picked it up.
The cover felt the same as it had the first time. Soft and warm from a long time of being held. He opened it to the first page and read the first line and understood within thirty seconds that it was not a diary.
It was a log. A working document, written in her handwriting, in her voice, tracking the things she was managing. Which was, he was starting to understand, most everything.
The first several pages
