Afterward, Diane asked me to join them for a photograph.
I hesitated.
Then Evan turned toward the camera and gave his cautious, uneven smile.
It was not Paul’s smile.
I stepped beside my sister.
That evening, I returned home and opened my bedroom window.
For the first time in a year, I removed Paul’s old T-shirt from my pillow.
I folded it carefully and placed it inside the tackle box with his letter and the childhood photograph.
But I did not hide the box in the attic.
I placed it on a shelf in the living room.
Paul spent most of his life hiding that photograph because he believed the past could damage the future he had built.
I will not repeat his choice.
The picture remains visible.
Two identical boys, eight years old.
Their shoulders touching.
