I didn’t mean to bury the letter.

I meant to burn it.

It came in 1944, just before the spring frost — thin paper, ink faded like breath. Mama held it for two full minutes before opening it, hands shaking like she was standing in a thunderstorm.

She didn’t cry. Not then.

The words said Daddy was gone.

Mama didn’t read them out loud. Just folded the letter three times, tied it with twine, and handed it to me.

“Put this somewhere you’ll forget.”

I did.

But today, forty years later, they’re digging up the south field for the new barn, and a rusted tin box just cracked open like a confession.

The letter’s still there.
And it’s not addressed to Mama.