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Weekly Contest #280
“How do I even begin to apologise for something like this?” The words tumbled out in a hoarse whisper. The pen trembled in Nathan’s hand as he stared at the dining table, cluttered with crumpled drafts. He forced his hand to move, pressing the pen's tip to the paper. His hand unsteady, he wrote: You don’t know me, but I know who you are. My name is Nathan Caldwell. I was there the day your daughter died. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, squeezing his eyes shut as memories crashed over him—his thumb on a detonator, then...
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