I close my eyes and soak in those words. Six more weeks. We can make it six more weeks, right?
“Have fun tonight. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Bye—” I start to say, but he’s already hung up.
Ten-year-olds, I think with an eye roll. Ten—it’s the same age Jamie and I were when we met, and that feels like a lifetime ago now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jamie – Now
“Grandad?” I holler into the quiet before closing the door behind me. There’s not a squeaky hinge left on this property after I went at them all in my first few weeks here, but I doubt there’s any WD-40 left in this whole village either.
“In here,” he calls, and I follow his voice toward the parlor where he sits with a cup of tea, a biscuit, and an open book.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, sliding the wooden box I’m carrying under my arm onto the table.
He motions to the chair next to him. “Of course. What do you have there?” he asks, pulling his glasses down his nose to look at the box. “Ah, I know what that is.”
“Yeah?” I ask, and a tingle of anticipation rolls down my spine.
He’s got a dreamy smile on his face. “Can you hand it to me?”
I pick it up and place it on his lap before sitting on the edge of my seat, elbows on my knees as I lean toward him. When he lifts the lid, his whole face softens at the sight of the mess of papers inside.
Letters.
It’s an entire box of letters. Some in yellowed envelopes. Some loose. Some rolled and tied with a ribbon or twine. Others remind me of the international envelopes you see in war movies with the red and blue striping, covered in intricate stamps.
“You were in the attic, I see.” He fingers a few of the letters, lifting one and reading the words with a wistful expression.
The attic was my refuge today when even the roof couldn’t help me figure out how to feel after my short-lived outing with Avi earlier. I told Gran I’d help organize some of the old stuff up there—which I did—but then I found this and immediately abandoned my duties to come in search of Grandad.
“I didn’t read them,” I say, wanting to be clear that I wasn’t snooping, per se. “But I am curious.”
“Of course you are,” he says with a low chuckle. “These are mine and your Gran’s letters. All of them… well, almost. We have a new box for the ones we’ve written since this one filled up.”
“You still write each other? Even now?” I ask.
“Not as frequently… but aye, we do.”
How did I never know this? That my love for words might not just be mine but was theirs as well. Still is, from the sound of it. “Is that why when I said I was writing a story for Avi all those years ago, you told me to write with my heart?”
“I was pretty wise back then,” he says with a cheeky smile. “I’m amazed you remember that.”
“You’re still pretty wise, and I pretty much live by those words.” I deepen my voice and recite them from memory: “If you write it with your heart, you’ll never go astray.”
“That’s right.” He chuckles and holds the box out toward me. “Here, you take these. Give ’em a read. See what you make of them.” He taps his nose with a knowing smile. “You might find some more wisdom hidden in there.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” I slide my hands around the box like it’s treasure, gripping it firmly.
“Och, no. I don’t think there’s anything in there that would scar you.” He laughs, and I do too. But then he sobers and reaches a hand over to cover one of mine. “I can see you’re looking for something. I can’t guarantee you’ll find it in there, but you never know.”
Am I looking for something?
Maybe so. I just wish I knew what it was.
