Harrison had been careful, deliberate. The first letter was gentle, almost kind. But the rest wouldn’t be.
I turned away from the window, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
One night down, I thought again.
Twenty-four to go.
Over the next four nights, something shifted.
The letters became softer, gentler. Harrison wasn’t attacking them. He was reminding them of who they used to be.
Night two: a letter for Naomi.
Warren read Harrison’s words about the day Naomi turned eight—how she told him she wanted to be a scientist who’d cure cancer.
“You said you’d save people,” Warren read. “What happened to that dream?”
I watched from my chair by the window.
Naomi was crying. Real tears this time.
“I forgot,” she whispered.
Night three: a letter for Rosalind.
When she was ten, a boy at school was being bullied. Rosalind had stepped in, defended him, got hurt, but the boy went home safe.
“You used to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves,” Warren read.
Rosalind didn’t speak, but her hands were shaking.
Night four: a letter for Celeste.
At six years old, she’d found an injured bird in the backyard. Harrison told her it probably wouldn’t survive. But Celeste didn’t give up. She kept that bird in a shoebox for two months, fed it with an eyedropper, wrapped its wing carefully.
“You used to care,” Warren read.
Celeste stood and walked out. I heard her crying in the kitchen.
Night five: a letter for Aurelia.
Harrison wrote about the Asheville Animal Shelter. When Aurelia was twelve, she’d volunteered every Saturday for two years. Cleaned cages, walked dogs, sat with the old cats nobody wanted.
“You didn’t do it for credit,” Warren read. “You did it because you cared. That’s the daughter I want back.”
Aurelia broke. She sobbed, covering her face.
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