The hotel room was quiet in a way that made the road noise outside feel louder. I sat on the edge of the bed with my shoes still on, staring at the suitcase I had not yet unpacked from the last city. Three months. That was how long I had been moving from one hotel to another, one bookstore or library or community center to the next. My body knew the rhythm of it too well now. Wake up, smile, talk about the book, sign copies until my hand cramped, eat something that did not quite taste like home, sleep in a bed that was never quite right, then do it again. I was tired in a way that went deeper than sleep could fix. The book was called *Always*. I had written it in pieces over the last few years, sitting at the kitchen table while Dominic worked in the garden or read in the chair across from me. It was not a story about the beginning. It was a story about what comes after the beginning. About choosing the same person on ordinary Tuesdays and difficult Thursdays and every morning afte
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