That I am terrified he is not enough.

My throat burns with tears as he pulls me against his chest. “I know about you, Mary,” he repeats, the vibrations of his voice trembling through my body. His lips are on my ear and as if he can read my mind he says, “Is life with me not enough, Mary?” I am filled with emptiness as I nod my head because I cannot bear to tell him the truth. Even as he reads my mind, as he proves to me how well he knows me. Even though he already knows my answer. Because I'm still hoping that he can fill the emptiness and the longing and that tomorrow morning I can wake up in his arms and it will be enough.

I have taken to spending most of my time up on the porch on the third floor, a place where Travis can't reach me because of his leg. I don't know what he does all day as I sit on the edge of the wooden boards, my legs dangling out in the air over the Unconsecrated below.

It's been a hot and dry summer, and every afternoon I wait for the rain that never comes.

I'm back to wearing my own clothes, all the dresses of the lady of this house folded neatly and packed into the trunk, the lid secured. When I walk through the attic space to get to my perch I try to avoid looking at those trunks stacked against the wall, but I always sneak a peek. I always wonder what other treasures are hidden inside.

I've promised Travis, if not out loud, that I won't take such risks again. That I won't do anything to endanger us both. That I'll try to be happy with our little life. And yet I can't stop my curiosity. I can't stop wondering what else I might find in those trunks.

And so one afternoon, when I can stand the boredom no longer, I slink through the attic and start to sift through their contents. The dresses I push aside, pausing only slightly to finger the softness of the fabric, the shininess of some of the buttons. There are more clothes—thick winter parkas, vests like the kind Gabrielle wore but in muted colors. I run my fingers over them and then force myself to set them aside as I begin to think about who must have worn these clothes.

I can't let myself think about the residents of this village and their lost stories.

At the bottom of one of the trunks I find a stack of books with cracked leather binding. I lift them out gently, flakes of leather crumbling as I maneuver them from their hiding place. I peel open the cover of the first book and run my fingers down the page. It's a photograph, yellowed around the edges, of a baby.

I've seen only one photograph in my life, the one that was lost to the fire in my village so many years ago, and I'm shocked again at how lifelike the image is. How the picture has captured an individual moment in life, frozen for all eternity. For strangers like me to wonder and ponder.