Sebastian turns his head. He does not ask the question out loud. He does not need to. "I never asked why," I say. "I was twelve. I didn't care about Christmas cards to people I'd never met."
The car slows as Lucas pulls onto a narrow side road that curves around the back of the hospital. The main building glows white and modern ahead, but the annex behind it is darker. Older. The kind of structure hospitals keep because demolition costs more than forgetting.
"Do you remember what she wrote?" Sebastian asks.
"No."
Not entirely true.
I remember the handwriting. Careful. Slanted. Always in blue ink. I remember watching my mother seal those envelopes like she was closing something important inside. I remember asking once who Marian was.
She smiled and said, "Someone who helped me when I
