By the end of the second week, Berlin had stopped counting the days.
She had stopped counting because counting made it a number, and numbers made it a problem, and she did not want it to be a problem. She wanted it to be what Kate kept telling her it was. Temporary.
She wanted to believe that.
Most days, she did.
Kate came every morning now and then. Sometimes just a text: Coffee outside the gate if you want company. No pressure. Sometimes she arrived before Berlin was dressed and sat in the kitchen with her. Kate was unfailingly kind to everyone in the house. Including Hope.
"He spoke to me yesterday," Kate said. Morning number nine. They were in the garden because Berlin had needed air. "In the corridor when I was leaving."
"What did he say?" Berlin asked.
"He thanked me for spending time with you." Kate wrapped her cardigan tighter against the October cold. "He said—" She stopped.
"What?" Berlin said.
