(Rebecca's POV)
Days pass. Weeks maybe. I don't count them.
Counting means waiting. I'm not waiting anymore.
My days have a shape now — run, coffee, Connie's kitchen table, laptop, research, sleep. Mine. It holds.
I run in the mornings. Connie's sneakers are still half a size too big, laces yanked tight. Same route I mapped the first week. The turns don't need thought anymore. Left at the mailbox. Right at the flower stand. Straight through the park until the path curves back.
The tulips on the windowsill died. I buy more. Different color this time — white. They lean in their jar the same way.
I work at Connie's kitchen table because the light is good and the counter is wide enough to spread printouts next to the laptop. My old cloud drive sits open most days. I read my own notes — m
