We lifted the lid together. Inside were stacks of old photo envelopes, loose pictures, and one small, yellowed envelope tucked between them. The flap wasn’t sealed anymore.
Becket was the one who pulled it free. “What’s this?”
The paper inside was brittle, edges torn. He unfolded it carefully. Only half the page remained, handwriting slanted and feminine—our mother’s.
“...I can’t stay here now that I know what really happened by the river. Please understand—this isn’t goodbye forever.”
Silence filled the attic. Even the house seemed to hold its breath.
Asher frowned. “The river? You think she meant?—”
“The crash,” Becket finished. “Maggie’s crash.”
Before I could answer, the attic floor groaned. Dad’s voice came from behind us, low and steady. “What are you boys doing up here?”
Becket turned, still holding the paper. “You ever see this?”
Dad’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. They flicked to the torn letter, then back to my brother. For a moment, something raw flashed through the calm. Then it was gone.
“That doesn’t concern you,” he said evenly, and took the letter from Becket’s hand. “Your mother was… struggling. She wrote things she didn’t mean.”
“That doesn’t explain what happened by the river,” Becket pressed.
Dad’s jaw tightened. “Let it go, Son. Some things don’t need to be dug up.”
He walked out before any of us could say another word, the envelope folded neatly in his hand.
Asher exhaled. “Well, that wasn’t suspicious at all.”
Becket stared after him, face hard. “He’s hiding something.”
“Maybe,” I said, though my stomach twisted. “Or maybe he’s just tired of losing people. Maybe it was personal stuff between him and Mom that you don’t share with your kids.”
Becket didn’t answer. He just shoved his hands into his pockets and went back down the stairs. We boxed up the photos in silence after that. The air felt heavier, thick with old ghoststhat had been sleeping too long. I found one picture of Mom holding Phoenix as a baby, smiling like the world hadn’t touched her yet, and tucked it into my jacket pocket without thinking.
Later, when the photos were sorted and the kitchen finally quieted, I found Harmony outside near the orchard. The afternoon light poured gold over everything, catching in her auburn hair until it looked like fire. She stood near the fence, watching a pair of kids chase each other through the pumpkin patch.
“You clean up better than you sweep,” I said, stepping beside her.
She smiled faintly. “And here I thought you were working.”
“Attic duty,” I said. “Family archeology.”
Her brow furrowed. “Find anything good?”
“Depends on your definition.” I hesitated, then added, “Becket found a letter. Might be from my mom. Dad took it before we could read it.”
Her expression softened. “That’s hard.”
“Yeah. It’s like every time we start to move forward, something yanks us back.” I studied the horizon, where the orchard faded into gold and smoke. “You ever get that feeling?”
“All the time,” she said quietly. “But sometimes looking back is the only way to know where to go next.”
I wanted to believe that. Instead, I kept seeing the letter and those few cryptic words about the river and the way Dad’s hand had trembled, just barely, when he took the letter.
When Harmony looked up at me, the light caught her eyes, turning them a bright shade of forest green. For a second, the noise in my head went still.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she said softly.
