The letter was a live thing in my hands. The paper seemed to vibrate with the weight of the words it held, with the ghost of the young man who had poured his desperate, hopeless heart onto its lines. I’ve been yours since the day we met.
The sobs had subsided into silent, shaking tremors. I sat on the floor of Derek’s bedroom, my back against the bed, the precious pages held gently in my lap. My tears had dried into tight, salty tracks on my face. The world had narrowed to this room, this paper, this truth.
The photograph in the locket had been a glimpse. This was the full, unsparing narrative. Every line rewired my nervous system. The drunken insult was a fumbled confession. The years of enduring insults served as a protective shield. The man I’d thought was my arrogant nemesis was, in
