I stopped reading because I could no longer see the words.
Watcher pressed against my knee.
I rested one hand on his head.
For two years, I had believed grief was the only thing connecting me to my son. I had been afraid that if I laughed again or slept peacefully or stopped visiting every week, I would somehow be leaving Ethan behind.
But the letters showed me something different.
Ethan had never wanted me to remain broken.
He had wanted me to live.
Not forget him.
Not pretend I was fine.
Live.
I folded the letter and placed it against the headstone.
“I found it, baby,” I whispered. “It just took a long way home.”
The wind moved gently through the trees.
Watcher laid his head against my knee.
And for the first time since Ethan died, the silence around his grave did not feel empty.
It felt like an answer.
