Chapter 7 - Whispering WallsWe returned to Forsyth Street near midnight. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, coating the city in a quiet amber glow.
Marcus left us at the lobby, giving me a subtle nod that said everything that needed to be said. I walked Clara up the four flights of stairs to apartment 4C one last time that night.
Inside, the apartment felt different. The tension that had hung over it for months was gone, replaced by a quiet warmth.
Clara made tea while I picked up the broken picture frame from the coffee table, clearing away the glass.
“You don't have to clean that up, Jake,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen with two mugs.
“I like fixing things,” I said, setting the wood frame aside. “It’s what I do.”
She set the mugs down on the table and sat beside me on the sofa. For the first time in three years, we were sitting side by side, without a doorway between us.
“I kept every note you wrote me,” I admitted quietly, looking down at my hands.
Clara paused, her eyes widening slightly. “What?”
May you like
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small, worn tin I had brought from my apartment windowsill. I opened the lid and tipped it slightly, showing her the neatly folded pieces of sketch paper.
“Every single one,” I said softly. “For three years.”
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