He found it wedged between the pages of a worn copy of *Moby Dick*. Michael ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that had become almost constant in the last few weeks. The paper was creased and slightly yellowed, the ink faded, yet his name, scribbled in a childish scrawl, was unmistakable. It was a letter to his father, written when he was eight, shortly after his parents divorced.
The words were simple, filled with a child's unwavering love and a plea for his father to come home. He felt a lump form in his throat, a familiar sensation since his own son, Liam, had gone off to college last semester. He read it again, each word a fresh wound. The little boy in the letter, so trusting and hopeful, felt like a stranger, a version of himself he'd long forgotten. He blinked back the wetness in his eyes.
He remembered the arguments, the slamming doors, the raw fear that permeated their childhood home. He remembered the feeling of abandonment, something he'd tried to shield Liam from. The letter's plea echoed in his mind, a whisper of a past he couldn't change. He closed his eyes, the memory of his father's gruff voice, now silent, filling his thoughts.
He walked over to the window, the autumn light hitting his face. The loss. Thatβs what it was. The profound loss. He wrapped his arms around himself.