Sunday came in warmer than the days before, the lake glassy and still, the sky a pale blue that promised afternoon heat. Aaron woke early and lay still, the sheets tangled around his legs, and thought about the shape of the day ahead. Daisy at two. The letter on the table. The hours in between that belonged to no one but himself and Sophie.
She was still asleep, her face turned toward him, her breathing slow and even. He watched her for a moment — the way the morning light caught the curve of her cheek, the way her hand rested on the pillow beside her face — and then slipped out of bed.
He made coffee and carried it to the porch. The envelope was still on the kitchen table where he had left it, unopened, the return address facing up. He did not look at it as he passed.
