But this time, before she left, she unfolded the note. It was in her father’s handwriting, the letters slanting left like a man always leaning toward the exit. It said only: I’m sorry I wasn’t the person you needed me to be. But I was the person I knew how to be.
Dinner was stew. Her mother asked about homework. Bailey said it was fine. They ate in the comfortable silence of two people who have learned that some rooms are better left locked, not because they hold monsters, but because they hold the keys to doors that no longer lead anywhere you want to go. Baileys Room Zip
She let it be.
Room Zip was small. Smaller than memory allowed. The wallpaper was still there, pale blue with faded sailboats, but the corners were peeling now, curling inward like dried leaves. A single window faced the backyard, where the oak tree her father planted the summer she was born now scraped the gutter with long, skeletal fingers. But this time, before she left, she unfolded the note