I looked around the room.
The fireplace.
The clean floors.
The vase on the kitchen counter with three white flowers.
“I want to live in it,” I said.
Daniel nodded slowly.
“He would have—” He stopped himself.
Started again.
“He would be glad.”
We stood quietly for a moment.
Outside, wind moved through the oak trees.
A branch shifted.
Light changed on the floor.
“I have something for you,” Daniel said.
He reached into his coat and produced a small envelope — not Thomas’s handwriting this time, but a printed label.
“Mr.
Hale gave it to me this morning.
It’s from my father’s personal effects.
He said my father specifically set this aside for you, separate from the estate.”
I opened it.
Inside was a single index card.
Thomas’s handwriting.
One sentence.
*I should have written back.
I’m sorry it took me fifty-four years
