The Cabin

One yr in the past, I buried my husband.

One yr in the past, I held his hand and mentioned goodbye.

Now I spend most of my days misplaced someplace between attempting to recollect each smallest element of our lives, and attempting to overlook all of it. I fill my hours with work till I’m too exhausted to recollect him, to really feel something in any respect.

One yr, 365 days—after which one knock at my door modifications all the pieces. A letter from him, a final request, a secret will:

My dearest Nadia,

Trust me, my love. One final time, belief me. Sometimes the epilogue to 1 story is the start of one other.