For three years, I kept my part. I visited, wrote letters, and stayed distant, convincing myself it meant nothing beyond the arrangement we had made.
Then Jonah was released, and everything changed. He came to my apartment, calm and unreadable, carrying a small black box.
He placed it on my kitchen table and opened it without a word. That was the moment I realized his mother hadn’t chosen me by accident—and that I had never been invisible at all.
