"You can leave anytime, princess."
"And miss you getting all sentimental over old kitchen supplies? Never." He grinned, hauling another box effortlessly toward the ladder. "Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don't keep everything out of guilt. I saw you eyeing that broken toaster."
He wasn't wrong. I’d already caught myself trying to justify keeping a vase that was cracked in three places because "Nana might’ve liked it."
We worked in relative silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of cardboard and the rustle of old paper. Most of it was exactly what you’d expect: chipped dishes, clothes from the seventies that should’ve stayed buried, books with cracked spines that smelled like vanilla and age.
But then I opened a box labeledFamily Photos - Misc.and my breath caught in my throat.
It was a treasure trove. Hundreds of loose photos, stacks of albums, spanning decades. Nana and Pops when they were young, looking impossibly happy and so in love it hurt to look at. Pictures of family gatherings, holidays, random Tuesday afternoons captured forever.
And near the bottom, a photo album withSummer Guestswritten on the spine in Nana’s neat, looping handwriting.
My hands trembled slightly as I pulled it out. I knew exactly what would be inside, but I wasn't ready for it.
"Find something?" Beau asked from across the attic, pausing with a lamp in his hands.
"Photo album," I said quietly. "From when your family used to visit."
He went still. "Yeah?"
I opened it, and the first page and brought a painful reaction to my chest.
There we were. Me and Beau, maybe seven or eight years old, standing in front of the barn. I was grinning at the camera, missing my two front teeth, wearing overalls that were two sizes too big and boots that were two sizes too small. And Beau—small, skinny Beau with his big blue eyes and messy blond hair—was looking at me instead of the camera. His expression was soft, amazed, like I was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
"Oh my god," Beau said, moving to look over my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. "Is that us?"
"Yeah." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Summer of 2013, I think. You were here for three weeks that year."
"I look like such a dweeb. Look at that haircut."
"You were a dweeb. You cried the first time you saw a cow."
"In my defense, it was a very large cow, and I was very small. It looked like a monster."
I turned the page, and there were more: us catching fireflies in mason jars, sitting on the porch eating popsicles that stained our mouths blue, me teaching him how to brush a horse while he looked terrified but determined. Each photo was a time capsule, a reminder of summers that had felt endless and golden when we were kids.
"I forgot how much time we spent together," Beau said softly, and when I glanced at him, his expression had gone distant, wistful. "You were basically my entire summer. Every year."
"You followed me everywhere. I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a burr."
"You didn't try that hard."
He wasn't wrong. As annoying as kid-Beau had been—constantly asking questions, afraid of everything, completely useless at ranch work—I’d liked having him around. He’d made me feel important. Needed. Like I knew things that mattered.
I turned to the next page, and the pictures shifted. We were older here—ten, maybe? The photos showed us skipping stones at the creek, climbing the old oak tree, racing horses (well, walking horses because Pops wouldn't let us actually race).
"That creek," Beau said, pointing at one photo where we were both soaked to the bone. "Is that still there?"
"Yeah. Down past the south pasture. We haven't been down there in ages though."
"You taught me how to skip stones. I was terrible at it."
"You were terrible at everything."
"Rude but accurate."
I kept turning pages, watching us grow up in still frames. Eleven-year-old us building a structurally unsound fort out of hay bales. Twelve-year-old us looking awkward and gangly, limbs too long for our bodies.
