The Nest, Early Morning – Late March
The light came late that morning — thin and grey, struggling through the Windsor fog like an afterthought.
Serena sat by the window of The Nest, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. The city outside was muffled and indistinct, as if the world itself had not quite decided to wake.
The letter lay open on the table.
Its words were short, elegant, unmistakable.
My dove,
You once told me you feared forgetting. Allow me to remind you that I never forget.
—C.
Serena read it again, though she'd already memorized every curve of ink.
Her fingers trembled — not from fear, not exactly, but from something harder to name.
It wasn't surprise. Christopher always returned.
He was the kind of man who lingered — in memory, in guilt, in silence.
And when silence spoke, it sounded like him.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, closing her eyes.
