I knew that paper.

I knew the neat, flowing handwriting that covered every page.

It was Evelyn’s handwriting.

“I found these in the cedar box,” Daniel said.

He held them up, his fingers touching the edges of the sheets.

“You should not have read them,” I said.

“They were addressed to you,” he said.

“But they were written by my wife.”

He sat down on the edge of the hard plastic chair beside my bed.

He looked down at the first page, his thumb tracing the blue border.

“She wrote these in the hospital,” Daniel said.

“During her last month.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“She kept secrets from me, Claire,” he said.

He looked up, his eyes searching my face.

“Why did she write to you?”

“We were friends,” I said. “Before she met you.”

“She never told me about you,” Daniel said.

“She wanted to protect you from her past,” I said.

“And she wanted to protect me.”

Daniel looked down at the letter in his hand.

He began to read aloud, his voice cracking on the words.

“‘My dearest Claire,'” he read.