extremely stubborn. Most likely both.
We kept reading.
Ezra had written about almost every Sunday.
Not long entries—sometimes only a paragraph or two.
He recorded ordinary moments I had forgotten.
The day Emma first came to his house.
The day Rachel sent him banana bread.
The afternoon we argued about football.
The time I accidentally bought low-sodium soup and Ezra accused me of trying to remove all pleasure from his life.
Year after year, his handwriting preserved the smallest details.
In the seventh notebook, I found an entry that made