a gift.”
“Ábrelo”.
Dentro estaba el lápiz rojo.
Not the exact original, obviously.
Luke had lost that one months ago.
This one had been mounted inside a small wooden frame.
Beneath it Cassandra had written:
For the things that find us when we finally look up.
I stared at it.
“You made this?”
“Luke helped.”
“It was my idea,” Luke announced.
“Of course it was.”
Then Cassandra handed me a second envelope.
My heart changed rhythm.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a photograph.
The four of us.
Taken
