“Everything okay?” Cyrille asks, brows furrowed with concern.
“I… Yes. Sorry. It’s just—It’s a letter from my parents.” I weigh the envelope in the flat of my hand. “It feels like there’s more than just a letter in here, actually.”
“Why do you seem so shocked?”
“If you knew my parents, you would be, too. They’re not the letter-writing type. Not the texting or calling type, either, actually. In fact, they’re the type to forget I exist unless they want something from me.”
My stomach twists with nerves as I tear the seal open, bracing for whatever they’ve written. But it’s not a letter inside.
It’s a set of pictures.
Pictures of the trailer I grew up in—the trailer my parents still live in.
Except it’s been burnt to the ground. All that remains is the smoldering carcass.
I throw the p
