The envelope shakes in your hands before you even open it.
Not because of the cold, though the mountain air has already settled into your bones like something personal.
Not because of grief, either, though grief is everywhere, hanging from the rafters, pressed into your ribs, crawling under your skin with each breath.
It is because you know your son’s handwriting, and the sight of it here, under rotten floorboards in a ruined cabin your daughter-in-law used as a punishment, feels too deliberate to be chance.
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