The last time I saw my first love was on my 17th birthday—thirty years later, a woman who looked exactly like her stepped into my yard

lid without opening it.

“Letters,” Ashley said. “All addressed to you. None of them mailed.”

I read through them all night.

Dozens of letters spanning thirty years, in handwriting I recognized before I had even registered the words. The earliest was dated six weeks after Lily disappeared, the pen pressed hard, as though written quickly before she could continue reading …