A Place To Be Safe

The white blanket was the only thing in the cottage that had not learned to fear a door. Nessa Ward folded it once, then twice, pressing the cotton into a square so neat it looked like a promise made by someone more innocent than her. Luca had carried it from bed to chair to the floor beside the kettle, dragging one corner over the old pine boards until it collected dust, crumbs, and the kind of ordinary evidence she had once believed she would be allowed to keep.