Elena arrives on the eighth day with something tucked under her arm.
I notice it immediately because she's never carried anything before—just herself, her guilt, and her quiet determination to be present. Today, she's holding a worn leather album, the kind with plastic sleeves and a faded cover, the kind that holds memories instead of just photographs.
She doesn't approach me. She sits at her usual table by the window, orders her black coffee and plain croissant, and sets the album on the table beside her cup. She doesn't open it. She just lets it sit there, a silent offering, waiting for me to decide if I want to see what's inside.
Sophie notices, of course. Sophie notices everything.
"What is that?" she hisses, leaning across the booth. "Is that a photo album? She brought a photo album? That's manipulative. That's emotional warfare disguised as nostalgia."
"It's a photo album," I say calmly. "Not a weapon."
