Dylan didn’t want to go to the funeral. He hadn’t spoken to Jordan in over three years. Not since the night with the fire, and the fight, and the silence that followed. But when Jordan’s sister called, her voice cracked with grief and hope: “He kept your letters. All of them. You should see.”

So Dylan drove back to the town he swore off, where everyone still remembered the accident. The mailbox at the old farmhouse was rusted, the porch still sagged, but the door opened like it had waited for him.

In Jordan’s room, nothing had changed. Posters on the wall. Guitar by the window. The box on the desk held every letter Dylan had written and never sent. Every page was opened. Worn. Read again and again.

On the desk was one more envelope. Unsealed. With Dylan’s name.

The first line: *”I was always waiting for you to come back.”