I opened the second box. Inside was a cheap silver compass. Ray had carried it everywhere when we were teenagers, despite being incapable of reading it properly. Beneath it was a thick bundle of paper tied with string.
Letters.
The first was dated August 1971.
“Dear Harold,”
“Germany is colder than I expected. Tommy says Australia is too hot, so between us we chose badly.”
I smiled, then I saw the final paragraph.
“You haven’t answered my last two letters. Everything okay?”
The next letter was from October.
Then December.
Then March 1972.
“Harold,”
“If you’re angry about something, tell me. Nick hasn’t heard from you either. Tommy thinks maybe your father is keeping you busy at the store.”
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.
