She folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope, sealing it with a firm press of her thumb. She placed it right beside the recovered letters from Mr. Holloway, creating a small, quiet archive of her own history.
The past could not be rewritten, and the lost years could not be reclaimed. But as she looked toward the window where the morning sun was finally breaking through the gray clouds, Emily realized something fundamental. The story was hers now, and she was the only one holding the pen.
