My hands felt clumsy.

The contract on my tray table slipped onto the carpet.

Elena Hartwell had loved old books when we were together.

She had worked at a university conservation studio and spent evenings rescuing broken bindings with thread and patience.

She had refused every expensive gift I offered but kept a cheap blue mug I bought her at a roadside diner.

She used to tell me that a thing could be damaged without being beyond repair.

I had loved her.

I had also let her go.

Willa leaned closer.

“Do you know my mommy?”

“I knew someone named Elena a long time ago,” I said.

“I’d like to say hello if she’s comfortable with that.

But we should let her decide.”

“She’ll like you.