On December seventeenth, I moved into the West District apartment. Everything I owned fit into four boxes: two of clothes, one of books, and one of ordinary necessities.Since burning the old letters and keepsakes, possessions had lost much of their power over me. I left behind anything I did not need. I carried only what would serve the life ahead.While packing the last box, my hand struck the corner of an old workbook. Adrian had used it when he taught me bookkeeping. The cover had faded, and the edges curled. Inside were the crooked columns I had written at fourteen and his corrections in red ink.I turned two pages, closed it, and placed it with my books.Adrian stood outside the pack house as the movers loaded the truck. He wore a black wool coat and his usual unreadable expression. Ivy stood beside him in deep red, still pale after treatment, both hands wrapped around a warm cup."Come back for dinner when you can," she said."I will."Before climbing into the truck, I turned an
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