When he finally sat up, the blanket slid from his shoulders like a question he suddenly didn’t want to answer.
The table was empty.
His throat felt tight.
He rose and crossed to the safe, fingers punching in the code with a practiced confidence that suddenly felt childish.
Inside lay the wallet and gold arranged more carefully than he had left them.
And on top, a folded piece of paper.
Victor unfolded it.
The handwriting was small and careful, slightly slanted, as though each letter had been weighed before it was allowed on the page.
Sir,
You left these on the table. I was afraid someone might break in. I put them in the safe like my mom taught me. I hope that’s okay. I made tea in the kitchen in case you wake up cold. It’s chamomile. Mom says it helps with sleep.
—Maya
Victor stared until the letters blurred.
