Jane Goldberg -

Jane Goldberg sat at her mahogany desk, the kind that felt too large for a woman who spent most of her life trying to be small. Outside her window, the Chicago skyline was beginning to blur into a smear of amber and violet, but Jane’s eyes were fixed on a single, yellowed envelope. It had no return address, only her name written in a script so familiar it made her chest ache.

She remembered the humidity of that coastal town. She remembered the way the air tasted like brine and jasmine. Most of all, she remembered the version of Jane Goldberg who laughed loudly and didn't check her watch every fifteen minutes. That Jane had stayed behind in that cottage, buried under the floorboards of a life she was told she wasn't allowed to want. jane goldberg

The photo was a Polaroid, the colors bled out by time. It showed a younger Jane, her hair wild and salt-crusted, standing in front of a turquoise cottage she hadn't thought of in two decades. Beside her stood a man whose face had been carefully folded out of the frame. Jane Goldberg sat at her mahogany desk, the

The key was heavy, brass, and cold. Taped to it was a small scrap of paper with a single line of coordinates. She remembered the humidity of that coastal town