The walk from Bryant Park to my apartment was a blur of cold and revelation. The locket was a live coal against my skin, burning with the truth I now carried. I moved through the festive streets as a ghost, unseen by carolers and last-minute shoppers, my entire world narrowed to the small, cool piece of silver beneath my layers.
Once inside my apartment, the silence was absolute. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t remove my coat. I stood in the middle of my living room, the city’s glow painting the walls in shades of blue and grey, and I fumbled for the chain.
My fingers, clumsy with a lingering tremor, pulled the locket out. I held it in my palm, just looking at its closed, engraved face in the dim light. It was an artifact. A holy relic of a love story I hadn’t known was being writt
