Later that evening, I sat at my dining room table in my quiet apartment. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle patter of rain against the balcony glass.
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk. Inside lay a single, organized folder marked with a simple gray label. No dramatic locks, no secret codes, just a clear, indexed file containing the closing papers of my fatherās criminal trial, the final release forms for my motherās separate property, and the three unopened envelopes from Belle.
I took out Belleās third letter again. I didn’t open itāI knew every word by heart anyway. But instead of sliding it back into the dark corner of the drawer, I set it on top of the desk beside my notebook.
I picked up a pen, pulled a sheet of heavy cream paper toward me, and began to write:
