The letter arrived on a Friday.
Different from her usual letters — she wrote weekly now, the letters growing longer and more ordinary with each exchange, which Nara had come to understand was the specific sign of a relationship becoming real rather than performed. Ordinary letters meant: *I trust you with the small things.*
This one was not ordinary.
The handwriting was the same careful precise script. But the paper had the quality of something written and rewritten — the specific texture of a page that had been worked over.
She read it at the kitchen table before Zevran was awake.
*Nara and Zevran — I'm writing to you both, but I need to start with something I should have said months ago. Perhaps years ago. I've been deciding how to say it since I understood that the wrong version of
