Elena Kane

Twenty-six days.

I haven’t released Isla’s hand since she sketched the door, on the heart with a crayon and exited the cathedral as if it were another playground.

I'm concerned that if I do the city will realize she’s still alive and reconsider.

She’s resting now nestled against my chest on the sofa in the flat above the eatery. Her curls carry the scent of baby shampoo mixed with the metallic hint that lingers on all of us nowadays. Her small hand clasps my wedding band ...