The letter was tucked inside a book I’d never seen Harlan read—'Wuthering Heights,' spine unbroken, dust undisturbed. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the page. Not addressed to me. Never meant for me. 'My dearest Talia,' it began. And then, words that froze my blood: 'I dream of your voice in the dark. I count the hours until I can see you again.'

I sat on the edge of our bed—the bed we’ve never shared—with the paper clutched in my hand. Six years of silence, of excuses, of cold sheets and colder glances. I thought it was me. I thought I wasn’t enough.

Then I heard it—the soft click of the study door opening downstairs. Footsteps. Two sets. One light, one heavy. Harlan’s voice, low and tender: 'You came.'

I didn’t know what I’d find if I went down there. Proof. Confession. Or something worse. But staying here, pretending I hadn’t read those words, felt like dying slowly.