I had no answer.
That night, I did not go to my office.
I sat in the chair beside Owen’s bed until he fell asleep with Grace’s letter tucked beneath his hand. The house beyond his room was quiet, the kind of quiet that used to feel expensive and now felt empty.
Near midnight, I stepped into the hallway and found Mrs. Ellis waiting by the linen closet.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“I know.”
Her face had aged in the last few hours. Or perhaps I was only seeing the years for the first time.
“Why didn’t you?”
She folded her hands in front of her. “Mrs. Whitmore believed you would throw yourself into making everything perfect. She worried you would treat the letters like a project. Preserve them. Catalog them. Lock them away to protect them.”
A painful smile tugged at her mouth.
“She said grief made you efficient.”
I looked down.
Grace had known me too well.
“I did what she asked,” Mrs. Ellis said. “But I should have found a way to help you remember.”
I wanted to say there was nothing to forgive.
Instead I said, “Thank you for keeping them safe.”
Her eyes shone.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I slept badly.
Just before dawn, I woke on the couch in Owen’s sitting room to the sound of voices.
For one wild second, I thought Grace was there.
Then I realized it was Clara.
She was speaking softly to Owen near the window.
The sky was pale blue beyond the glass. The Japanese maple stood still in the morning light, its bare branches dark and delicate.
“I used to think houses remembered things,” Clara said.
Owen’s voice was faint. “Like ghosts?”
“Not ghosts. More like echoes. A good laugh in the kitchen. Someone running down stairs. A door opening when people were happy to come home.”
“My dad would pay a fortune for that description and turn it into a luxury condo ad.”
I nearly laughed.
Clara did.
“I’ll be sure to charge him if he uses it.”
Owen was quiet for a while.
Then he asked, “Why did you take this job?”
The question made me still.
Clara did not answer immediately.
“I needed one,” she said.
“That’s not the whole answer.”
“No,” she admitted.
I should have moved then. I should have made my presence known.
But something in Clara’s silence held me where I was.
“My mother was sick for a long time,” she said. “Not the same illness. But the same kind of quiet in the house. People whispering in hallways. Meals no one ate. Clocks getting louder.”
Owen murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“Did she get better?”
“No.”
The honesty did not frighten him. If anything, it seemed to relax him.
“Were you with her?” he asked.