“You are to anyone who remembers being twenty-one.”
Then, after a pause, she adds, “The debt is recorded.”
You blink. “What?”
“The money. What I owe you.” Her eyes return to yours. “I have not forgotten.”
Something in your chest tightens. You had told yourself you didn’t care anymore, because caring hurt less if you buried it under usefulness. Hearing her say it out loud makes the old frustration rise again, mixed now with shame that it still matters.
“I never wanted to pressure you,” you say carefully.
“You didn’t.” She reaches for her teacup with both hands. “That may be why I trusted you.”
It is not enough. It is also enough to keep you from quitting.
Summer arrives heavy and damp. The alley smells of hot brick and rainwater. The little house seems to shrink further in the heat. Mrs. Mercer’s health worsens in ways that do not announce themselves dramatically, just a gradual narrowing of energy, appetite, and ease. She sits more. Walks less. Sometimes loses the thread of a story halfway through, though never the thread of your name.
