I hear Rachel’s name the way most things reach me now, sideways and softened, carried on lowered voices that stop just a fraction too late when I round a corner, or threaded into conversations that pretend to be about something else. It is never said with neutrality. It is always weighted, shaped carefully into something that feels finished, settled, no longer worth questioning.
“She couldn’t handle it.”
The words come from behind me as I pass the equipment shed, spoken with the casual certainty of someone repeating a conclusion they did not personally arrive at, and I keep walking, my pace even, my expression unchanged, because reacting would only invite clarification I am not sure I am ready to hear.
Another voice follows, quieter but sharper.
“She wasn’t loyal enough.”
That one lan
