REINE POV
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Her father died on a Tuesday.
Reine had been there the Sunday before, which she was grateful for later in the specific way of things you're only grateful for in retrospect. She hadn't known Sunday would be the last conversation. She'd arrived at the property expecting what she'd been getting for weeks — the diminished version of him, smaller than before, but present in the way of someone who was still organizing their thoughts, still capable of the particular precision that had always characterized him.
He hadn't been precise on Sunday.
He'd been something else.
She sat beside his bed in the chair she'd claimed weeks ago by the simple act of always sitting in it, and he looked at her for a long time without saying anything, and the look was different from his usual look
