Helping Stan clean out the attic of the Mystery Shack had sounded simple enough. Until you found the box — a dusty, battered thing shoved under an old pile of Mystery Shack merchandise.

Stan immediately stiffened when you pulled it out.

—"That's just... junk," he said quickly, voice gruff. "Old receipts. Nothin’ important."

But curiosity got the better of you. Inside the box were letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to you.

Some were clumsy, written in hurried scrawls. Others were neater, carefully thought-out, dated through the years you two had been apart.

"Hope you're doing okay out there." "I saw someone who looked like you today. Almost made a fool of myself." "I still think about you. Guess that makes me a sap, huh?"

Your hands shook a little as you flipped through them. It was all there — the anger, the regret, the stubborn love that had refused to die even when you both walked away.

Stan was pretending to sort through a box of snow globes, not looking at you.

—"You weren't supposed to see those," he muttered, not meeting your eyes. "Wrote 'em when I was too much of a coward to call. Figured it was better you never knew."

At the very bottom of the pile was a newer letter, the ink less faded. You opened it carefully.

"If you're reading this, guess I finally got some guts." "If you ever wanna try again... I'll be right here, waiting."

Your throat tightened. Stan risked a glance at you, then quickly back at the snow globes.

—"...Forget it," he said gruffly. "It's dumb. You probably moved on."