That night I returned to my own modest kitchen.

I made coffee in Raymond’s old machine and sat by the photograph of us at a county fair, both laughing because rain had ruined our picnic.

The rosemary outside the steps had grown wild again.

I made a note to trim it in the morning.

On the table was a letter from Trevor.

It did not ask for money.

It described work, the humiliating difficulty of learning practical skills he had once mocked, and a counseling session where he had finally spoken about Raymond’s death without changing the subject to success or failure.

At the end he wrote, I know saying sorry doesn’t make you safe around me.