The sound of the welding torch was a rhythmic, agonizing hiss that vibrated through the floorboards. It felt like they were sealing my lungs, not just the service door. Every spark that flared against the kitchen window was a funeral pyre for the girl who had almost made it to the harbor.

I sat in the center of the bed, my knees pulled to my chest, the silk duvet feeling like sandpaper against my skin. The diary—his mother’s legacy of grief—was still tucked against my hip, a cold, hard ...