the billonaires secretary
“He’s not around.”
I didn’t press. I couldn’t. Not right now.
She knelt by the closet, pulling out a worn box. “These were his too,” she said, placing it on the bed.
Inside were baby photos me as a toddler with chocolate smeared on my cheeks, my dad holding me up high, his face full of joy. And then seven more letters. My name was written on each one, in the same slanted handwriting. All dated the same day.
My hands trembled as I picked them up. The ink in the first few was steady, sure. But as I read through them, the writing changed more shaky, less clear. The words slurred in places. Like he’d been sick. Like he was running out of time.
Chapitres populaires