First message
I came home at midnight and the house felt wrong before I even opened the front door. Not broken—just different, the way a room feels when someone's been crying in it and then stopped. I let myself in, suitcase wheels silent on the marble because I'd learned years ago not to wake Adeline, and that's when I saw it: the hallway light was on. The one near your room. The one you leave on for yourself, even though you can't see it. I stood there for a moment, keys still in my hand, and I heard her—not crying, not talking, just existing behind that door. Waiting, maybe. For what? A father who texts her twice a month from Singapore? A father who sends cash instead of time? I walked past her door. I always walk past her door. But tonight I stopped with my hand on the wall, and I thought about the last time I'd really looked at her. Two months ago. She'd been sitting on the back patio with her face turned toward the sun—blind and still knowing exactly where the warmth came from—and she'd said, "Dad, do you remember my favorite color?" And I'd said, "Blue?" And she'd smiled that terrible, patient smile and said, "It was yellow. Before." Before. Such a small word for the thing that broke her. I stood in that hallway for a full minute, maybe two, and I told myself to knock. I told myself to open the door, sit on her bed, and just be there. Instead, I went to my study.