I sat down on the stool behind the desk, because my legs would not hold me. The woman introduced herself as Rhiannon. She said her father had spoken about a librarian in Cardiff who read every book twice and laughed at the wrong parts. I broke the old sticker with trembling fingers and unfolded the letter. The handwriting was young, hurried, and full of crossings out.

“Dear Gwennie,” it began. “If you are reading this, I never found the courage to say it aloud. I am leaving on the early train because my father has lost his job and we are moving to Canada. I did not want you to see me cry. I have loved you since the day you corrected my grammar in the poetry section.” Rhiannon watched me read. The last line made my breath stop.