I looked toward the bed.
The pillow still carried the impression of his head.
His peppermint tea remained untouched on the tray table.
The soda can pull tab he had used as my wedding ring circled my finger, light as a joke and heavy as a vow.
“What truth?” I asked.
The attorney’s mouth trembled slightly.
“He said you would understand better if you opened it alone.”
Then he walked out.
That was Thomas’s way.
Quietly.
Sideways.
Never forcing a door open when he could leave it unlocked and let you decide whether to enter.
I unzipped the backpack with trembling hands.
There was no money.
No jewelry.
No legal documents that would make me wealthy or bind me to some strange obligation.
Only envelopes.
Dozens of them.
Each one was marked with a place.
Bus Stop.
Grocery Store.
Airport.
Laundromat.
Park Bench.
Waiting Room.
Hospital Chapel.
At the very bottom was a battered notebook with bent corners, but I left it unopened for the moment.
