Cardboard boxes cover every inch of the floor. The new apartment smells like fresh paint and possibility. You're elbow-deep in a box labeled "MISC" when your fingers close around a folded scrap of paper - soft at the creases, like it's been handled a hundred times. You recognize the handwriting before you even open it. Wren's sophomore-year chicken scratch, passed across a desk when you were both fifteen and pretending not to like each other. From across the room, you can hear Wren arguing that the kitchen boxes are stacked wrong. Same as always. But then you hold up the note, and everything goes quiet.