page, over his moving pen.

“Uncle,” she said quite seriously. “This one is like your ring.”

She pointed at his right sleeve. The cufflink caught the lamplight — a single letter cut in gold that had been in his family for three generations. R.

The fountain pen slipped from Aleandro’s fingers and rolled off the edge of the desk. He did not reach for it. His eyes were on the square of silk, on the brown stain, on the thread he had watched his mother sew into that corner when he