Between two pages lay a pressed red maple leaf, fragile with age.
I remembered before touching it.
One autumn, I borrowed Carl’s favorite novel.
When I returned it, I slipped a bright red leaf between the pages.
“Now you’ll never lose your place,” I had joked.
Carl had preserved it like treasure.
A sharp ache burned beneath my collarbone.
“He never contacted me.”
“Arthur wouldn’t let him,” Mr. Baron said.
He looked toward the leaf.
“After his diagnosis, he saw your name on the hospice volunteer list and finally made one request. ‘Her,’ he said. ‘If she’s willing.’ He didn’t ask for you because he wanted to reveal who he was.”
Mr. Baron smiled faintly.
“He asked because, after years of quietly hoping you were all right, he finally had a chance to meet the woman you had become.”
Carl’s letter explained the rest.
