They walked back to the hotel in silence, the fog rolling in from the bay, swallowing the streets and the buildings and the distant bridge until the city felt like a ship adrift in a white sea. Aaron did not speak. He was still holding the letters, the weight of them pressing against his chest, the story of his life rearranging itself around the things he had learned.
Sophie walked beside him, her hands in her pockets, matching his pace without trying to fill the silence. She had learned when to speak and when to wait, and this was a waiting time.
The hotel room was quiet when they entered. Aaron set the letters on the desk — Elena's, David's, Emma's — and stood looking at them for a long moment. Three envelopes, three voices from the past, three pieces of a puzzle that had taken him weeks to assemble.
"How do you feel?" Sophie asked.
"Like I've been carrying something I didn't know was heavy."
