I have spent an hour sitting, staring at nothing—aware that there is a steadiness beneath my feet. Tangible as the desk on which I’ve set my hands. I remember the charred wood, the force of the rain, the never-ending night. And then the impossible: hope. Profound, peaceful hope. Lifting a finger to the crevice in the wall, I knew. I knew that I would give the hope to Pierce, if I could. Every golden coin of it. I’ve taken the folded fortune from the back of my desk drawer and find I’m no longer afraid of what it could mean, or what it mightn’t. I am neither looking for Pierce inside the words,
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