He found it while helping his parents clear out the attic – a dusty box labeled "Our Future." He flipped it open, and felt a strange twist in his gut as he read the letters he'd written to his younger self. Each item inside – a signed baseball card, a drawing of a rocket ship, a collection of silly childhood poems – was a testament to his younger brother’s vibrant, imaginative existence. Michael’s name, scrawled large across the top of everything, was a stark reminder of the brotherly bond they once shared.
He remembered nothing of it. The box held a past that Michael alone seemed to have possessed. He traced the lines of his brother's handwriting, then tossed the box back into the attic. He wandered downstairs, avoiding eye contact with his parents, who were already reliving the childhood memories. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, the metal cold and unyielding in his grip.
Later that evening, Michael found his brother talking to his dad, laughing. The easy camaraderie between them felt like a sharp jab in his chest. A sudden headache bloomed behind his eyes. He poured himself another drink and headed for the back porch, where he stayed until the sky bled into night.