The fog doesn't lift until noon.I've been sitting on the porch since dawn, watching it roll across the garden, swallowing the fig tree, the stones, the ocean beyond. Celeste is inside, making calls to the cybersecurity firm — not because they need her, but because she likes to stay connected. The firm is in good hands, has been for years, but old habits die slowly.She brings me coffee."You've been out here for hours," she says."I've been waiting.""For what?""For the fog to lift. For the day to start. For you to join me."She sits beside me, pulls a blanket over both of us."I'm here now.""I know."---Mireille calls in the afternoon.She's in the south of France, at the residency — not as a director, as a guest. She's writing a memoir, she says, about the years in the basement, about the healing after, about the sister who never gave up on her."Are you sure you want to publish that?" Celeste asks."I'm sure I need to write it.""That's not the same thing.""It's the only thing
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