He unfolded it and slid it across the wooden table.
It was my handwriting. Hurried, scrawled in blue ink.
If we survive the impossible things, remind me that an ordinary, boring life was the dream.
I looked at the note. I looked at my brother, laughing as he struggled to balance on his cane while flipping a burger. I looked at my mother, who had finally learned that appearing perfect was a cage. I looked at my own scarred shoulder.
And I looked at the man who had died to save me, and clawed his way back from the grave to find me.
There was no grand sweeping romance. No movie-ending kiss. Just the raw, jagged reality of survival, and the choice to build something out of the wreckage.
I reached into the pocket of my jeans. I pulled out the tungsten ring and slid it across the table toward him.
