That night, Emilie’s phone lit up while she was sleeping. In the morning, the first thing she saw was the photograph of Sara’s kitchen, delivered just after midnight, no words to accompany it. Emilie sat in her bed, holding the phone close to her, zooming in to study each part of it as clearly as she could. She saw a stained sink, imagined Sara standing over it. Saw the worn curtains, the loneliness, the grief. Saw the ferns and the redwoods through the window. She waited for a message to come, but nothing else followed. And still. She recognized a love letter when she saw one.
