It surfaced on an ordinary afternoon, tucked between the pages of a book that hadn't been opened in years—a volume of poetry she had carried through her wandering days, its spine cracked and pages yellowed with age and neglect. Lila had been sorting through a stack of her belongings for the new bookshelf in their freshly painted living room, deciding what deserved a place in this home they were building together and what could finally be left behind.
The book had been at the bottom of her old traveling trunk, beneath layers of carefully folded clothes and wrapped treasures. She remembered packing it years ago, back when books felt like luxuries she couldn't afford but couldn't abandon either. The poetry inside had once brought her comfort during lonely evenings in boarding houses and cram
