The kettle had been simmering for so long that Robin had stopped hearing it. The sound had become part of the kitchen's silence, like the salt wind through the open window, like the distant rhythm of the sea against the cliffs below. He stood at the counter with his coat still on, the weight of it familiar on his shoulders, as if he might leave at any moment.

He didn't know why he'd taken the letter out.

He knew why. He'd known for weeks, carrying it through the lighthouse and back, the paper soft against his ribs. But knowing and doing were different things, and he'd gotten very good at the space between them.

The paper was worn at the edges, creased along the same lines so many times that the fibers had gone pale and thin. Robin unfolded it slowly, the way you handle something you're afraid of breaking, and read the last line again.

If I don't make it, tell him I—

The sentence just stopped. Cut off mid-thought, mid-word, mid-everything. The ink trailed off like the line had been interrupted by something louder than paper, something that had taken the rest of the words with it.

Robin's thumb traced the crease where the sentence broke. The paper was smooth there, worn soft from all the times he'd unfolded it in the dark, all the times he'd tried to find the words that came after the dash.

There were no words. There had never been words. There was only the collapse, the rubble, the moment he'd shoved the letter into his coat and gone looking for Kaelen in the dust.

The kettle simmered. The sea breathed against the rocks. Robin stood in the kitchen of the cliff house with his coat still on and read the last line of a letter he'd never finished, and the unfinished sentence sat in his chest like a stone.

Tell him I—

Tell him I what?

Tell him I loved him. Tell him I was proud of him. Tell him I'm sorry I never said any of it while I had the chance. Tell him that being his friend was the best thing I ever did, and I wasted so much of it being afraid.

"Tell him I—" Robin said aloud, and the words died in the air of the kitchen.

They just wouldn't come. They'd never come. He'd written the letter in the dark of the lighthouse, convinced he was about to die, and even then—even with death breathing down his neck—he hadn't been able to finish the sentence.

He'd been able to write If I don't make it, tell him I— and then the stones had come down and the sentence had stayed unfinished, exactly like everything else he'd ever wanted to say.

Robin folded the letter along its worn creases. The paper made a small sound, soft and final, and he held it in his hand for a moment before sliding it back into his coat pocket.

He didn't button the pocket. He never buttoned it. The letter needed to be reachable, even if he never actually reached for it.

Outside, the sky was going grey at the edges. The sea had lost its color, turning flat and silver under the early evening light. Robin watched it through the window, the way it moved without ever getting anywhere, and thought about how easy it was to do the same.

The kettle was still simmering. He'd forgotten what he'd meant to make with it. Tea, maybe. Something warm. Something that would give his hands something to do that wasn't holding a letter he couldn't finish.

He didn't move.

The coat sat heavy on his shoulders. He'd put it on hours ago, meaning to go down to the shore, meaning to walk the salt off his skin and maybe find some words in the sound of the water. Instead he'd ended up here, in the kitchen, with the letter in his hand and the sentence still unfinished in his chest.

"Tell him I—" he tried again, and the words failed again.

The kitchen was quiet. The kettle simmered. The sea kept its own counsel.