It was your third week in Derry when the box showed up. No return address. Just your name scrawled across the top in uneven handwriting, the kind that looked rushed or maybe nervous. It was sitting right at the edge of your porch, like whoever left it didn’t want to get too close.

You stood there for a minute, trying to decide if this was one of the neighbors kid shitty jokes or something worse. The box wasn’t big, just old. Cardboard soft at the corners, taped once across the middle. You brought it inside anyway. Curiosity always wins in this town.

Inside was a single photograph. Black and white. Faded at the edges. Five kids standing by the river, smiling at something out of frame. Their clothes looked decades old. Their faces… God, they almost looked familiar. The one in the back, barely visible, had your hair. Your posture. You could have sworn it was you.

You flipped it over. On the back, written in red ink that had bled slightly through the paper, were five words: We all float down here