V. The Voice from the Revolving Doors
I read the last line twice, my chest caving in, and that’s when a voice echoed across the marble lobby from behind me.
“Julian.”
I turned. Camille stood just inside the revolving doors, thinner than I remembered, a scarf wrapped around hair that had clearly grown back from a more recent chemo round, her eyes red-rimmed but steady.
“I told myself I’d just send the letter and wait outside,” she said. “But I couldn’t let them walk in here without me.”
I don’t remember crossing the lobby. I only remember reaching her, and both of us standing there, nine years of stolen time collapsing into a single moment, while our sons watched from beside the reception desk, hand in hand.
