“Supposed to be,” I repeated.
Denise sighed.
“It wasn’t handled well.”
“Did Luke send letters?”
“Yes.”
“Did Emma ever respond?”
“I don’t know.”
But Luke knew part of the answer.
That night, when I asked him, he disappeared into his bedroom.
He returned carrying an old shoebox.
Inside were copies of letters.
Dozens of them.
Every letter Luke had written to Emma over four years.
Birthdays.
Christmas.
Questions about school.
Friends.
Whether she was happy.
His handwriting changed as he grew older.
But every letter ended the same way.
I’m still your brother.
Again.
And again.
Year after year.
“She never replied,” Luke whispered. “Not once.”
He touched the box.
“I figured she hated me.”
“Then why did you keep writing?”
“In case.”
Something felt wrong.
A nine-year-old who had once gone looking for her brother every time she was afraid didn’t simply stop caring.
Somewhere between Luke writing those letters and Emma receiving them, something had gone wrong.
