⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⭒❊✿❊⭒∘∙⊱⋅•
The silence stretched after Rachel's question, almost like the room was closing in on us. The radiator clanged loudly, and the old woman in the wheelchair seemed to watch us more intently.
Adrien placed his almost-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft thud and leaned in, elbows on his knees, the journal sitting heavy in his lap like it held the weight of a trial.
"Rachel," he began, his voice quiet but firm, "a few months back, we found Mom's journal hidden away at the lake house in Clearwater. She wrote in it at least every month or so during her last year."
He carefully opened it, the pages crackling slightly. "She talked about you a lot, called you her best friend and the only person she could open up to when things got tough. She wrote about her fears, secrets she felt she couldn't share with anyone else… and how she needed answers to a lot of things happening around her."
