I set down my spoon. "My question is: Are you really dying?”

“Yes,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Of what?”

“Broken heart.” Angelo perched on the edge of his cereal bowl. “Her name was…Rosaline.”

“Was?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “She’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Was Rosaline your girlfriend?”

“Wife,” he said, choking back the grief. “And my best friend. My muse. My everything.” Angelo turned to the window, wincing at the brightness of the sun.

“All that’s left are the love letters she wrote me.” He sank a single cornflake with his heel, then let it bob back to the surface of the milk.

“Why do you keep her letters locked in the trunk?” I asked.

“I have to lock them up, or else I read them too often. But it’s a stupid plan,” he said. “Look.” Angelo opened his mouth and lifted his tongue, revealing a tiny golden key.