Iris leads you beyond the last houses to a bend in the river. She brings a sketchbook. You bring sandwiches divided so evenly that she asks whether you used a ruler. When she turns the book, the drawing is of your hand on the wrapper, including the crooked finger you always try to hide in photographs. You look like yourself when you stop arranging it. You turn the next page with more care. There are library ceilings, damaged frescoes, and the word Florence beside a flight number. She has been offered a six-month fellowship. The acceptance deadline is Monday. You say congratulations before fear can edit the answer. Her relief hurts more than the news; she had expected to defend wanting it. I didn't want you to think this was a reason not to start anything. You ask whether she has decided. She says she wants to go. You put the sketchbook between you rather than closing it, and ask her to show you the ceiling she could help restore.
A weekend in your grandmother’s bookshop. A box of unsent letters. The person you never quite said goodbye to.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.