I knew that ribbon.
It had once held together the curtains in my first apartment, back when I was twenty-six and believed love meant being seen clearly.
My hands trembled as I reached for the letters.
They were addressed to me.
All of them.
Iris Caldwell
Iris, please call me
My dear Iris
Clara’s handwriting appeared on some. My old professor’s on another. A college friend. A former colleague from the research lab.
Letters I had never received.
Years of voices Jason had intercepted before they could reach me.
I opened the first one from Clara.
Iris, I don’t know why you won’t answer. I came by yesterday, but Jason said you were sleeping. I left the lemon cake you like. I hope he gave it to you. I miss you. I don’t care what he says happened between us. You are my sister before anything else.
