A week after I moved back into the cabin, I wake up in my spare room and instead of going downstairs, I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment and stare out the front window. The noises downstairs must be from Lucy making breakfast. She’s been trying different foods this week. Since she loved Frank’s soufflé at the inn, she’s “rechecking her palette,” as she likes to say. I chuckle. The old Lucy never tried anything she didn’t already know she liked.
The same question that’s been plaguing me for the past week resurfaces—how can she be the old Lucy but be so different at the same time?
Along with testing every food she can get her hands on, she’s been reading her journals and looking at pictures, but if any more memories have come back, she hasn’t told me. Still, last night I pulled in t
