The wallet was shoved behind the dresser she never emptied. Inside, a boarding pass—Denver, one-way, dated three years ago.
She never showed it to me. I never asked.
The landlord's teenage son found me in the hallway that evening. He said, "She always said you'd come up here eventually."
He led me up the back stairs, through a door marked with a yellow sticker—NO ACCESS. The roof was flat, the gravel warm from the day.
We sat on the ledge, watching the capitol dome glow against the dark. He told me Lily used to come up here to watch the planes.
He kept a little plant in a tin can by the chimney. She'd water it before school.
I handed him the boarding pass. He tucked it under the can. "She'd want it up here," he said.
I had never felt closer to her than on that roof, holding nothing but the memory of her hands folding that paper.
Sometimes the places we aren't supposed to go are the only ones that make sense.