Another.
"We miss you, idiot."
Another.
"Please write back, even if it's only one sentence."
I stared at the pages. I'd never seen any of them.
There were copies of 11 letters in that bundle.
Eleven.
I remembered checking the mailbox after work when I was 18.
Then 19.
I remembered pretending I didn't care.
My father had noticed once. "Waiting for something?"
"No."
"Those boys have their own lives now, Harold. You should get on with yours."
Eventually, I had.
At the bottom of Ray's box was a letter written by his daughter.
"My father kept almost everything from those years, including carbon copies of letters he typed before mailing them. When we found these after his death, I finally understood why he sometimes talked about you with such sadness."
After his death.
I covered my mouth.
Ray was gone.
He had died three years earlier.
His daughter wrote that one of the last things he'd asked her to do was make sure his box reached the bench if he couldn't.
