voice, and boxes of notes.
When I was a kid, I thought his stories were dusty and strange.
Ava did not.
Ava loved them.
She had taught herself bits of old Spanish, Latin, and handwritten scripts from his journals. She could spend a whole Saturday staring at one yellowed page and come away happy.
I thought it was a hobby.
A sweet thing.
A lonely child’s comfort.continue reading …
