His expensive wool coat was damp, smelling of cold water and cedar.

In his arms, he carried my blue metal tin and the cedar box.

He did not say a word.

He closed the door behind him with his heel.

He walked over to the armchair by the window and set the boxes down on the small table.

He took off his wet coat and hung it over the back of the chair.

His hands were trembling slightly.

“Daniel,” I said, my voice barely a squeak.

He turned to look at me.

His eyes were red, the skin around them dark and shadowed.

“I went to your apartment,” he said.

His voice was very quiet, almost hollow.

“I saw,” I said.

He walked over to the bed and stood looking down at me.

“The place was so small, Claire,” he said.

“There was barely any food in the kitchen.”

“I do not need much,” I said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of folded papers.

My breath caught in my throat.

The paper was thick and cream-colored, with a faint blue border.