THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Sister’s Room
Nora had not been in Lena’s room for fifteen years.
The door was at the end of the hallway, the last room on the left, the one their parents had kept closed after Lena died. Nora had walked past it hundreds of times, thousands, never stopping, never turning the knob, never looking inside.
She had been afraid.
Afraid of what she would find. Afraid of what she would feel. Afraid of what she would remember.
But today, she was ready.
The key was cold in her hand. Their parents had given it to her before they moved to Florida, before they sold the house, before they tried to forget that they had ever had two daughters instead of one.
“You don’t have to go in there,” her mother had said.
“I know.”
“But if you do, take whatever you need. Keep whatever you want. The rest we’ll donate.”
“I will.”
Her mother had hugged her.
Her father had shaken her hand.
They had left.
And Nora had stayed.
The key turned.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
The room was frozen in time.
Lena’s bed was still made, the quilt pulled tight, the pillows fluffed. Her desk was still cluttered with books and papers and pens. Her closet was still filled with clothes she would never wear again. Her mirror still reflected the face of a girl who had been gone for fifteen years.
Nora stepped inside.
The air was stale, thick with dust and memory. She walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, illuminating the motes that danced in the air, casting long shadows on the floor.
She turned.
She looked at the bed.
She remembered the nights she had crawled into it, after nightmares, after fights with their parents, after heartbreaks. Lena would hold her, stroke her hair, whisper that everything would be okay.
She had believed her.
She still wanted to.
The desk was covered with photographs.
Lena and her friends. Lena and her boyfriend. Lena and Nora.
Nora picked up one of them — the two of them at the beach, the same one she had found in Miles’s apartment, the same one she had pressed against the glass of the visitation room.
They were laughing.
They were young.
They were happy.
She tucked the photograph into her pocket.
She would take it with her.
She would keep it close.
She would never forget.
The closet was full of memories.
Dresses and jeans and sweaters and shoes. A prom dress, still wrapped in plastic. A winter coat, still smelling of perfume. A box of letters, tied with ribbon, hidden on the top shelf.
Nora pulled the box down.
She opened it.
The letters were from Miles.
Dozens of them. Hundreds. Written over years, over decades, over a lifetime. He had kept them all. He had never stopped writing. He had never stopped loving.
The first letter was dated before Lena died.
Dear Lena,
I don’t know how to say this. I don’t know if I should. But I need to tell you the truth.
I love you.
I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. Since the first time you smiled at me. Since the first time you said my name.
I know you’re with someone else. I know you’re happy. I know I shouldn’t interfere.
But I needed you to know.
However you feel about me, I will always love you.
— Miles
Nora read the letter three times.
Then she read it again.
Her hands were shaking.
She had never known. She had never suspected. She had never seen the way Miles looked at Lena, the way he spoke about her, the way he carried her memory.
He had loved her sister.
And he had lost her.
Just like Nora.
The last letter was dated after Lena’s death.
Dear Lena,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.
I think about you every day. Every hour. Every minute. Your face. Your voice. Your laugh.
I miss you.
I miss you so much it hurts.
I don’t know how to live without you. I don’t know how to breathe without you. I don’t know how to be without you.
But I’m trying.
For you.
For Nora.
For us.
— Miles
Nora set the letter down.
The room was silent.
The dust motes danced in the sunlight.
She picked up the box.
She carried it out of the room.
She closed the door behind her.
She locked it.
She would not come back.
She did not need to.
She was carrying Lena with her.
Always.