Chapter 9 - The Slow Work of Seasons
Ten months passed.
Winter surrendered to a lush Illinois spring, and spring deepened into the golden warmth of late summer.
I settled in Madison, Wisconsin, working as an independent advisor for small sustainable businesses and local cooperatives. My life was quiet. I took the bus, cooked my own meals, and volunteered on weekends at an adult literacy foundation. Marcus remained my friend, updating me occasionally on the ethical restructuring of Morgan Capital, but we never spoke of Claire. I had made a pact with myself never to inquire.
One Friday afternoon in September, a wooden crate arrived at my small office in Madison. It was wrapped in heavy twine, the sender's label bearing no name—only an address in Galena.
My heart seized.
With unsteady fingers, I cut the twine and lifted the lid.
Inside lay an old, beat-up edition of Marcus Aurelius’s *Meditations*—a book I had owned in college, which had fallen apart years ago and was lost in one of our many moves.
It had been fully restored. The spine was rebound in supple, deep navy calfskin, stitched with immaculate ivory linen thread. The gold-leaf lettering on the spine was pressed with breathtaking precision.
Tucked into the front cover was a bookmark made from pressed wild clover. Written on the back in familiar, elegant handwriting was a simple message:
*Some things are broken beyond repair. Others only require patient hands, the right glue, and time to cure.*
May you like
*If you ever find yourself on Main Street again, I have tea. With clover honey.*
***
