William's eyes locked onto the envelopes Jessamyn had entrusted to him, their delicate script marking each with dates stretching far into the future. He counted them silently—eighteen in total.
Each letter was intended for their son, to be opened on his birthday every year until he turned eighteen. The realization made his throat tighten with emotion. This wasn't just a mother preparing heartfelt messages for her child's milestones; it was a mother preparing for her absence, knowing she wouldn't be there to see those days.
His chest tightened painfully as he imagined the first birthday, that joyous day when their son would be surrounded by family, perhaps even taking his first tottering steps. And yet, Jessamyn's presence would be a ghost in that celebration, felt only through the words she had penned in those letters.
