Chapter 3 · free to read
A dead woman's handwriting on a canister she never opened. My grandmother handed me a question I didn't ask for.
The image swam up out of nothing, the way they always do. A mother. A minute old daughter.
Seventeen years apart. Two women who met yesterday. And one man in a photograph, standing between us like a splice.
He answered. Neither of us has said a word since. There's a name for what we might be, and I can't get my mouth around it yet.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.