The Message She Carried
Lila opened her small backpack.
Rowan reached out slightly.
“You don’t have to show us anything, sweetheart.”
“I know,” she said. “But he wanted you to have this.”
She pulled out a small envelope, its corners bent from being carried for too long.
On the front, written in careful handwriting, were four words:
For the ones waiting.
Rowan stared at it.
His hands trembled as he took it.
He didn’t open it right away.
Maybe he was afraid of what it might say.
Maybe because once he read it, the years of wondering would finally become something real.
Lila waited quietly.
At last, Rowan slipped a finger beneath the flap.
Inside was a photograph.
Six young men stood beside motorcycles on a mountain road, all of them laughing—young, strong, untouched by what life would later take from them.
Colter stood in the center, one arm around Rowan’s shoulders.
Behind the photo was a short note.
Rowan read it once.
Then again.
His face changed as he read.
Not suddenly.
Not loudly.
But completely.
