“She missed you,” Harry said softly.
The man looked toward the grave.
“I know.”
He sounded like someone carrying a stone inside his chest.
Harry didn’t know what else to say.
The man introduced himself as Daniel.
He thanked Harry again, nodded to Harry’s parents, then left before anyone could stop him.
Harry watched him drive away.
Something felt unfinished.
That evening he sat at his desk turning pages in Grace’s photo album again.
His mother knocked softly before entering.
“You okay?”
Harry shrugged.
She sat beside him.
“You liked her a lot.”
Harry shook his head.
“No.”
His mother looked surprised.
“I loved her.”
The words hung in the room.
She pulled him into a hug.
The next afternoon somebody knocked on their front door.
Daniel stood outside.
He looked worse than at the funeral.
More tired.
Less composed.
“I found something,” he said quietly.
Harry’s mother invited him in.
Daniel placed an old envelope on the kitchen table.
Grace’s handwriting covered the front.
For Daniel. Do not open until you are ready to stop running.
“It was inside her desk,” he explained. “The attorney gave me her things yesterday.”
“Did you read it?” Harry asked.
Daniel laughed once.
A terrible sound.
“No.”
He looked at Harry.
“I couldn’t.”
The room went still.
Harry remembered Grace sitting beside the television with tea in her hands. Remembered the way she always glanced toward the window around five o’clock, as if expecting footsteps that never came.
“Why didn’t you visit?” he asked quietly.
His mother looked at him.
Daniel didn’t seem offended.
Only tired.
“My grandfather died when I was nineteen,” he said. “Grace blamed me.”
Harry frowned.
“What happened?”
Daniel stared at the envelope.
“My grandfather and I fought. Badly.” His voice lowered. “He wanted me to stay in town. I left for college anyway.” He swallowed. “He died two weeks later.”
The kitchen became very quiet.
“Grace said I abandoned family when they needed me.”
Harry looked down.
Daniel continued.
“We stopped speaking after that. Pride took over. Then years passed.” He laughed bitterly. “You tell yourself you’ll call tomorrow enough times and eventually you lose the right.”
Harry thought about Grace waiting.
About the peppermints no visitors ate.
About the spare chair beside hers.
Daniel placed another item on the table.
A photograph.
Grace and a younger Daniel standing beside a lake.
Both smiling.
Both happy.
“She loved you,” Harry said.
Daniel nodded immediately.
“I know.”
“And you loved her.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you go back?”
Daniel didn’t answer.
Because some questions hurt too much when the answer is yourself.
Harry looked at the unopened envelope.
“Maybe you should read it.”
Daniel stared at it for a long time.
Then slowly opened the seal.
The letter inside was short.
Very short.
He read the first line and stopped breathing.
Harry saw tears hit the paper.
“What does it say?” his mother asked gently.
Daniel handed her the letter.
She read silently.
Then covered her mouth.
Harry looked down.
My dear Daniel, it began. If you are reading this, then I am finally somewhere your grandfather can complain about my tea again. I hope he gives me trouble for staying angry too long.
Daniel broke.
Completely.
I was wrong, the letter continued. Grief made me cruel. I blamed you because losing both of you hurt too much.
His shoulders shook.
You were never the reason our family broke.
Harry felt his own eyes sting.
If you ever come home, look for the boy across the street. He reminded me that love still knocks even after we stop expecting it.
Daniel lowered his head.
The kitchen stayed silent.
Finally he looked at Harry.
“She wrote about you in every journal.”
Harry blinked.
“What?”
Daniel smiled weakly through tears.
“Three years of entries.” He laughed softly. “You were apparently impossible to stop talking about.”
Harry looked away, embarrassed.
Daniel reached into his coat.
“There’s something else.”
He placed a small leather notebook on the table.
Grace’s name was written inside.
“It’s the last journal she kept.”
Harry opened it carefully.
The pages were full of ordinary things.
