My whole history rearranged itself in the space of a breath into something I could not yet read, and I stood there frozen with my earrings on the nightstand, feeling the past come unfastened from the truth.

Chapter 8 — The Wound I Cleaned Myself

The memory came all at once, whole and vivid, the way the important ones do.

It was 2017.

Santiago and I were in the bathroom of our old house, and the glass door of the shower, a cheap thing that had never sat right in its track, gave way without warning and shattered.

It happened in a heartbeat.