Harper: Will

The third letter arrived on a Sunday, slid under his apartment door while he was in the shower. No envelope this time. Just the paper, folded in half, lying on the gray carpet like a fallen leaf.

Will got out of the car. The gravel crunched under his shoes like static. Will Harper

“Took you long enough, big brother.” The third letter arrived on a Sunday, slid

His hand trembled as he set the kettle on the stove. The lake. He hadn’t thought about the lake in twenty years—not really. Not the deep, cold blue of it. Not the way the dock had creaked under their feet. Not the night the fireflies had come out early and the air had smelled like rain and gasoline. Will got out of the car

Inside, the cabin smelled of pine and dust and something else—something sweet and cloying, like old perfume or decay. The furniture was covered in white sheets. The fireplace was cold. But on the kitchen table, where he and Sam used to eat Froot Loops out of the box, lay a fourth letter, this one propped against a mason jar filled with dead fireflies.

Will stood in the doorway, dripping onto the floor, and felt something crack open in his chest—something he’d sealed with epoxy and denial a long time ago. He thought of Sam’s fishing rod, still leaning in the corner of the old cabin’s porch. He thought of the Polaroid camera they’d found at a yard sale, the one that spat out blurry, overexposed memories. He thought of the night his father had said, “Some things are better left at the bottom.”