I got up, went to the quartz counter in the kitchen, and dropped Eleanor’s letter straight into the plastic recycling bin under the sink.

The heavy blue lid closed with a flat, final snap.

I poured black coffee from the little glass pot into a plain white ceramic mug.

The room smelled of dark roasted beans and fresh furniture polish, without a trace of the stale herbal tea and old carpet smell that used to hang in the hall on Maple Street.

At eleven I walked into Rose’s quiet neighborhood salon on Lake Street.

The soft whir of a hair dryer filled the narrow room, mingling with the warm scent of peppermint shampoo and clean cotton towels.