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He huffed a laugh. “Still true.”
“I don’t know what to do without you,” I whispered.
His eyes went shiny. “You’re gonna live. You hear me? You’re gonna live.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” he said. “Me too.”
“For things I should’ve told you.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, then just shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For things I should’ve told you.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Get some sleep, Hannah.”
He died the following morning.
The funeral was black clothes, bad coffee, and people saying, “He was a good man,” like that covered everything.
“Your uncle asked me to give you this.”
Back at the house, it felt wrong.
Ray’s boots by the door. His mug in the sink. The basil drooping in the window.
That afternoon, Mrs. Patel knocked and came in. She sat on my bed, eyes red, and held out an envelope.
“Your uncle asked me to give you this,” she said. “And to tell you he’s sorry. And that… I am too.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
Several pages slid into my lap.