The first bouquet arrived on Monday morning. A cascade of white roses, each stem wrapped in velvet ribbon, each petal fresh with dew as though plucked from a garden only moments before. The florist carried them in with two hands, the weight of the vase nearly tipping.

Attached was a card. His handwriting, sharp and deliberate, leapt from the surface.

“I’m sorry, Evelyn. I should have protected you. Please forgive me. — Julian.”

I left the flowers in the hallway, their fragrance ...