Veronica did not bother to sign her name. The letter came to a conclusion quite satisfactorily on its own. She placed her hand over the pages, not wanting to let go of the habit, not really wanting to get up from these pages for good. Her fingertips grazed over the indentations, marks like those etched eternally in her consciousness. With a deep inhalation, she shut the journal and slid it onto the shelf with the rest of the books, its nondescript leather blending in with the other texts seamlessly. It would not be disturbed.

Trevor was lying in bed, his bare torso exposed with the sheet slipping to his waist.