I had been staying at the suburban care facility for almost a week. Outside my window, sycamore leaves covered the ground. Whenever the wind passed through, they rustled softly against one another.
That small sound made the place feel livelier than the Gosling Manor had ever been. This kind of peace was something I had not known once in the past three years.
Then the door to my room opened quietly. A familiar set of footsteps came in. I lifted my head and met Miles' bloodshot eyes.
He stood in the doorway with a stack of papers clenched in his hand. Rain still stained his suit, and his wet hair clung to his forehead. He looked worn down, battered, and exhausted.
I closed the book, but I did not get up or speak.
I only sat there and looked at him in silence, the same way he had watched
