built it.”
“I mean you.”
“I know.”
“I brought something.”
He handed me a small envelope.
“Another letter?”
“Yes.”
“From Victor?”
“Delivered through Eleanor this morning.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was addressed to you.”
I accepted the envelope.
Andrew took one step back.
“I should go.”
“You can stay.”
“Some things should belong only to you.”
“Thank you,” I answered.
I observed him leave, carrying nothing that belonged to his family except the consequences he had chosen to face.
Next I unfolded Victor’s final letter.
