I Returned to the Same Diner Every Birthday

apartment was hushed—no TV, no radio. Only the heater’s hum and the faint creak of furniture.

Inside: a folded letter, a black-and-white photo, and something wrapped in tissue.

The handwriting was unmistakable. The curve of the M in Marge hadn’t changed. My fingers paused.

“Alright, Steed. Let’s see what you’ve kept, my love.”

I unfolded the letter slowly continue reading …