She didn’t know if Margo was real, not in any way that could be proven. Maybe she was a hallucination born of loneliness and a traumatic brain injury. Maybe she was a coping mechanism, a way for Lena’s psyche to give herself the love she had never received.
Lena stopped believing in angels the same day she stopped believing in her father.
She didn’t see Margo that day. But she felt her, somewhere on the edge of perception, like the memory of a warm hand or the last notes of a song.
“Who are you?” Lena croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.