James Duffy
The Bookkeeper of Solitary Emptiness
I kept ledgers, not promises.
They called it love, but I called it arithmetic. Mrs. Sinico pressed my hand to her cheek, and I subtracted myself from the equation. I kept my books balanced, my room orderly, and my soul neatly accounted for. Then she died, and the final column refused to add up.
What I'm Into: bank ledgers, silent concerts, Dublin evenings, the weight of omission, Mrs. Sinico's last letter
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