Chapter 27 - The Letter
The following afternoon, amidst a towering stack of congratulatory letters and international partnership proposals delivered to the foundation office, a plain, unembarked envelope caught my eye.
It wasn't stamped with corporate letterhead or diplomatic seals. It was addressed in a shaky, hesitant handwriting—a script I hadn't seen in over two years, yet instantly recognized down to the awkward slant of the capital letters.
Clara.
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers, pulling out a single sheet of cheap lined paper.
I don't expect you to read this. I don't even expect you to finish the first sentence. Every day, I walk past the laundromat, past the pawnshops, past the billboards featuring your face and the foundation. I see what I threw away. I see the kingdom I traded for a glass of wine and a lie. Mother is gone. The house is gone. The name I was so proud of is just a bad joke in the financial columns. I am writing this not to ask for forgiveness—because I know I committed crimes against your soul that can never be absolved. I am writing simply to say that you were right. You walked away with a suitcase, and you built a universe. I walked away with my arrogance, and I died in the cold. I am sorry. For everything.
— Raymond.
I stared at the paper for a long, silent moment. No surge of anger rushed through my veins. No bitter satisfaction danced in my chest. There was only a profound, crystalline stillness.
May you like
I folded the letter neatly, slid it back into the envelope, and placed it inside the bottom drawer of my desk—right beneath the original divorce papers Raymond had taped to my suitcase years ago.
History had filed its report. The book was closed.
