I’m 45; by paper, I’m her guardian.
She lives in my house by feel: by her voice, by her footsteps, by the warmth of a stranger’s palm. She doesn’t see her age. She doesn’t see the ban. She says my name so calmly, as if it has always belonged to her.
Six months—and according to the law, I must let her go. But before that, I have to keep my distance. Yet for now I only hold my breath every time she passes by.
Sin already lives with me under the same roof. She became my sin, and I—her guardian.