“I know you wanted me to be,” Rose said.

She took a step forward, her wet leather boots squeaking on the floorboards.

“But I am very much alive, Claire.”

Megan came out of the parlor, her face pale, looking between Rose and Claire.

“Who is this?” Megan asked, her voice trembling. “What is going on?”

Rose looked at Megan, and her expression softened into something resembling pain.

“I think you already know, deep down,” Rose said.

She reached into the deep pocket of her green coat.

She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.

The paper was yellowed and torn along one edge.

I looked down at the scrap of paper I was still clutching in my own hand.

Rose walked over to me, her movements slow and deliberate.

She held out her hand.

I placed my torn piece of the letter next to hers on the small entry table.

The jagged edges lined up perfectly.

The handwriting matched, the faded black ink crossing the seam seamlessly.

“Read the rest of it,” Rose said to Megan.

Megan stepped forward, her eyes wide as she looked at the combined pages.