“Eleanor,” he said. My sister’s name landed in the quiet room like a stone. I gripped the edge of the table, certain I had misheard. Eleanor had stood beside me at every memorial and sat with me through every spring I aired that dress. Thomas reached into his jacket and set down a bundle of yellowed envelopes tied with string. Each one was addressed to me in his handwriting, and each one was stamped RETURN TO SENDER.

“I wrote to you from the hospital,” he whispered. “I wrote again when I came home.” Before I could answer, headlights swept across the window, and a car door shut in the driveway. Someone knocked softly, three times. Through the glass I saw a frail woman with white hair, leaning on a cane, and I knew she had come to tell her side.