He then tells her he has walked two hundred miles to return a key to a room he last saw forty years ago—a room where he had been happy. He places a brass key on the table. "The inn burned down in '78," the daughter whispers. "I know," he says. "That is why I came."
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The next morning, his room is empty. The key remains on the bar. But on the back of the key, now visible in daylight, is scratched: "Forgive me." He then tells her he has walked two
Without preamble, he says: "I have counted everything. My wife’s smiles. My son’s baseball throws. My own heartbeats. And I have found the sum lacking." "I know," he says