I recognized it immediately.
The handwriting on the side was mine.
From a lifetime ago.
Inside were papers—folded and refolded until the creases had softened. An old notebook with a warped cover. And on top… an envelope I hadn’t thought about in nearly 18 years.
I picked it up slowly.
I had opened it once, long ago… then tucked it away like something I couldn’t afford to think about again.
It was an acceptance letter.
One of the best engineering programs in the state.
I had gotten in at 17—the same spring Ainsley was born.
And I had set that letter aside… and never touched it again.
Because there were more immediate things to figure out.
