again.
The following morning, I found an envelope waiting in our mailbox. My own name sat written across the front in his careful, familiar handwriting — the same handwriting I recognized instantly from decades of small notes he’d occasionally left us, thanking Peter for helping clear a fallen branch, or reminding us when the farmers market opened for the season.
Inside sat a short letter. He wrote that something had been buried in his own yard for decades now, and asked me, plainly, to look beneath the old apple tree.
I
