Marlowe
I carried the box of letters back to the medical bay with careful, deliberate hands, understanding I was holding something considerably more fragile than paper and old ink — a decade of a good man's private, unspoken grief, finally ready to be shared instead of carried entirely alone.
King met me in the hallway, and I showed him the top letter without a word, watching his expression shift through the same devastating recognition I'd experienced reading it myself.
"He's been carrying this the whole time," King said quietly, once he'd finished reading. "Alongside everything else this club's been through. Never said a word."
"I don't think he knew how to." I held the box carefully, protective of its contents. "Some kinds of guilt don't come with an obvious way to voice them. He fo
