She nodded quickly, accepting the boundary like a gift she had no right to unwrap too fast.
Then she handed me the last letter.
“I want you to have these back.”
I shook my head.
“No. Keep them.”
Her eyes filled.
“Why?”
“Because when you forget what fear can cost, I want you to read them again.”
She held the letters to her chest.
“I will.”
That evening, my father knocked on the guest room door.
I was folding Leo’s clothes into our overnight bag, though neither of us had said aloud when we were leaving.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
I nodded.
He stepped inside, holding something wrapped in an old towel.
“I found this in the garage.”
He unwrapped it.
Inside was a wooden music box.
My breath caught.
“I made that,” I said.
“You were fifteen,” he said. “You were angry because the lid didn’t fit right.”
