Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
The words on the page seemed to suck all the air from the room.
Camille stared at the letter.
Then stared again.
Because surely she had read it wrong.
Surely her exhausted mind was making connections that weren't there.
Yet the sentence remained unchanged.
Written in her mother's elegant handwriting.
Clear.
Certain.
Impossible.
My dearest Camille, if you're reading this, then I was right about Dante Moretti.
The room remained silent.
Dante stood beside her.
His gaze fixed on the page.
Camille could feel everyone's attention on her.
Waiting.
Watching.
Wondering.
But for a few seconds she couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Because the letter suddenly made her mother feel alive again.
Not a memory.
Not a photograph.
Not a story.
Alive.
Then Dante's voice came quietly.
"What does it say?"
Camille swallowed.
Her throat felt painfully tight.
Then she began reading aloud.
My dearest Camille,
