Now choice stood in front of me like a door without a lock.
I reached for the phone.
Evelyn Mitchell stepped forward, all the color gone from her face.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
That single word made my fingers steady.
I answered.
At first, there was only silence.
Not empty silence. Breathing. Faint, careful, as if the person on the other end had been holding the phone for a long time but had not expected the call to connect.
“Hello?” I said.
A man inhaled sharply.
Then a voice, older and rougher than the one in my memories, spoke my name.
“Iris?”
My knees nearly folded.
Daniel moved a chair behind me without saying anything. I sank into it, still holding the phone with both hands.
The voice came again, trembling.
“Iris, sweetheart, is that you?”
Sweetheart.
The word crossed ten years as if no time had passed at all. I could see my father at our old kitchen table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pencil tucked behind one ear while he helped me build a science fair bridge out of craft sticks. I could hear him laughing when it collapsed under too much weight, telling me failure was just information wearing a bad mood.
