Tick. Tick. Tick.

  The clock on the wall marked time with soft, metronomic patience.

  Marianne adjusted her posture in the chair across from him. She always left the seat angled — not too confrontational, not too distant. Between them, a low table: untouched tissues, a single glass of water.

  “Hi Elias,” she said gently. “It’s good to meet you.”

  He nodded. Not quite meeting her eyes.

  “You don’t have to rush,” she added. “We can sit in the silence a little. That’s okay.”

  A pause. He scratched at his sleeve, then gave a low exhale.

  “I didn’t know what to say,” he mumbled. “I still don’t.”

  Marianne gave a small smile. “Most people don’t, first time around. That’s part of why you’re here.”

  His eyes flicked to the window, then down again. “My brother said I should come. He booked it.”

  “That was thoughtful of him.”

  “Yeah.” A pause. “He’s… he’s only sixteen.”

  She let that sit for a moment.

  “And you’re worried about putting too much on him.”

  His mouth twisted. “He’s still in school. I’m supposed to be the one looking after him, not the other way around.”

  “But you’re not sure you can.”

  “No,” he whispered. “I’m really not.”

  Marianne leaned forward slightly, her tone calm. “Then that’s where we’ll start. We’ll work together to help you feel strong enough to be the older brother again. But before we get there, I’d like to know more about you. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?”

  He paused, crossing his arms. His eyes returned to the clock — less than five minutes had passed — then dropped back to the floor. With a sigh, he started speaking.

  “Well... I’m Elias. I’m twenty-three. I live with my younger brother, Adam, and our mom. Dad left us when we were young. Adam was only six, so he doesn’t remember much. But I had just turned thirteen. Him leaving… it hit me harder.”

  He paused again — but once he started, the words began to spill faster, less guarded. The time quickly trickled away.

  “…I don’t know how to stop feeling like I owe him everything,” he said. “He’s just a kid, but I feel like I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him. That’s not fair, right?”

  Marianne nodded slowly. “It’s not fair. But it’s very human.”

  He looked up at her for the first time. “So what do I do?”

  She offered a small smile. “We take it one step at a time. And we start with letting you exist — without owing anyone anything.”

  The clock ticked again. She glanced at it, then back to him.

  “I think that’s a good place to pause for today.”

  Elias gave a small, uncertain nod.

  “I’ll see you next Monday,” she said, standing.

  He rose too, hesitating a moment before giving her a quiet, “Thanks.”

  As he stepped out, the door closed with a soft click. Marianne remained still for a moment, her eyes lingering on the empty chair across from hers.

  Then she rose from her seat. In the hallway, she grabbed her backpack and coat, locking up quickly before stepping out into the fading afternoon light.

  As she briskly walked toward the parking lot, her pace gradually slowed. Soon, she came to a stop in front of a streetlight plastered with posters. One of them was worn, its edges torn and curling.

  Exhaling softly, Marianne set her bag down on the pavement. She began peeling at the faded poster, pulling away the loose scraps with careful fingers. Then, rummaging through her backpack, she quickly found what she was looking for.

  She pulled out a fresh copy, unrolled it, and pressed it against the metal pole. After applying the glue, she smoothed the poster into place, carefully creasing out the edges. With one final glance, she turned and continued her walk.

  On her way to the car, she repeated the process four more times, posting copies in her usual quiet rhythm. By the time she reached the parking lot, dusk had settled in.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  She tossed her backpack into the back seat and started the engine, beginning the drive home.

  The sun was just dipping beneath the trees when the gravel road appeared, winding off the main route like a secret path. She turned onto it, the tires crunching noisily, the car rattling slightly as she made her way toward the house.

  A few minutes later, she pulled into the driveway.

  As she reached to turn off the engine—

  “Buh!”

  She flinched, then groaned. Brian had popped up just outside her window, grinning like a kid who’d gotten away with something.

  “Brian!” she laughed, exasperated. “You can’t do that to me! I thought you were some teenager trying to jump me.”

  “Oh please, sweetheart,” he said, casually eyeing her from head to toe, “what teenager in their right mind would try to jump you?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  Brian was already chuckling as she got out of the car.

  “Oh, you’re really asking for it now,” she said, marching up to him until they were just inches apart.

  “Asking for what?” he asked innocently. “I’m just pointing out the obvious, darling.”

  He leaned in gently for a kiss — but she pushed him back with a grin.

  “Oh, now you want a kiss? After calling me ‘un-jumpable’? Nope. Not happening. I’m clearly just some ‘unwanted goods,’ right?”

  “Aw, come on!” he laughed. “You know I didn’t mean it like that!”

  “Mhm, yes, Brian. That lingering gaze over my body definitely wasn’t referring to my wrinkled skin. Sure.”

  Brian suddenly put on a serious face. “Marianne… it’s more accurate to call it soggy.” His grin returned just as quickly, followed by a chuckle.

  “Well, that makes two of us, Brian. Your skin is soggier than a leftover teabag.” She smirked. “Anyway, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the garden calls. The sun’s almost down. Is dinner ready?”

  Looking slightly defeated, Brian sighed and shook his head. “I wanted to wait until you got home to see what you felt like. I was thinking of making a chicken casserole. That okay?”

  She nodded. “Of course, Brian. Go on in and get started. I’ll be in soon. I picked up some new seeds on the way home — thinking of planting them around Great Brick.”

  “Around old Brick? Are you sure, honey?” he asked, brows raised with mock concern.

  “Yes, I’m sure! He’s looked lonely lately, and I’ve ignored him too long. It’s time to liven him up a bit. Now go — make me something good!”

  “You got it, boss.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before heading inside.

  Marianne slowly walked into the shed beside their house, the rusty hinges groaning as she pushed the door open. She grabbed a small shovel, a trowel, gloves, a hand rake, and a bucket of compost. A well-worn kneeling pad tucked under one arm, she set off around the side of the house.

  It didn’t take long to haul everything to the base of the old birch tree — Great Brick, as Brian had jokingly named it years ago. Its white bark was marked with age, peeling in soft strips, the trunk solid as stone.

  She knelt on the grass and tugged on her gloves. The soil here was softer than expected — she’d chosen this spot for that reason — though still tangled with old roots and dry leaves. She began by clearing the ground: pulling away weeds, scraping back the top layer of mulch and debris with the hand rake, and loosening the earth with her trowel.

  A few minutes in, she paused, catching her breath and brushing a curl of hair out of her face. The evening air was cooling, tinged with the scent of cut grass and the fading warmth of sunlight.

  Next came the holes. She measured the spacing with her hand and began digging — just wide and deep enough to welcome each small shrub without cramping the roots. She worked slowly, pressing her weight into the little shovel, coaxing the earth open one spot at a time.

  Three holes in total, arranged in a gentle arc around the base of the tree.

  From the bucket beside her, she scooped compost into each hole, mixing it with the loosened soil.

  “Let’s make this feel like home,” she murmured, more to herself than the plants.

  She reached for the seedlings — small flowering bushes she’d picked up on her way home. Hardy, low-maintenance, and colorful in spring. She eased each one from its nursery pot, gently teasing apart the roots before lowering them into the holes.

  Once they were nestled in, she began backfilling the soil, firming it around each base with careful pressure.

  When it was done, she sat back on her heels, letting out a soft sigh. The new plantings looked a little awkward next to the towering birch — like young children clinging to a grandparent’s coat — but it worked.

  She stayed there a moment longer, watching the last of the light spill through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold.

  Then, as she began preparing a final space for mulch just behind the tree, her trowel struck something hard.

  Frowning, she tried again — this time using more force, expecting an old root. But it didn’t budge.

  She cleared the soil around it with her hands, revealing a corner of something plastic. Confused, she kept digging, carefully now, until she unearthed the object fully: a small, faded lunch box, its edges caked in dirt, sealed shut with several layers of cracked, discolored tape.

  Her brow furrowed. What on earth was a lunch box doing buried here?

  It looked old. Really old. And someone had clearly gone out of their way to keep it shut.

  She used the hand rake to pry at the tape. It took some effort, but finally the lid gave way with a faint snap. Inside, nestled in the murky plastic interior, was a single folded letter — stained at the edges, yellowed with age, and slightly greasy to the touch.

  She lifted it carefully. The paper was soft and creased, threatening to tear as she unfolded it.

  The moment her eyes scanned the words, she froze.

  Then, her hands shaking, she dropped the letter.

  “No…”

  She snatched it back up, her breath catching in her throat.

  And then she was up — legs moving before her mind caught up.

  “Brian!” she shouted, rushing toward the house, the letter clenched tightly in her hand. “Brian! Get over here right now!”

  “Honey? What’s wrong?” Brian’s voice was steady but tinged with concern.

  Marianne held the letter in trembling hands. “It’s Rebecca’s handwriting. I… I don’t understand. We have to read this. Now.”

  Brian took a slow breath. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the garden. Buried beneath Great Brick. In an old lunch box. It looked fragile… but it was sealed tight.”

  She folded the letter carefully, voice barely a whisper. “Dinner can wait. This… this is important.”

  Brian nodded, moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll turn off the stove. Let’s sit in the living room. Please don’t read it alone.”

  Marianne’s fingers brushed the paper once more before she allowed herself to sit beside him. As they unfolded the letter together, her breath caught. Tears welled up, blurring the faded ink. Her heart felt like it was choking in her throat—words from the past unraveling everything she thought she knew.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of the message hung heavy in the quiet room.

  Outside, the wind stirred the branches of Great Brick, whispering secrets only the tree could hear.