Page 244 of Let Me In

He’s quiet for a beat. Then—

“She’d have liked you.”

My throat tightens.

He sets the photo aside. Reaches into the trunk again.

The next thing he lifts is a flannel. Soft with age, the fabric thinned in places from years of wear. The color is muted red andpine green, the kind of pattern that looks like it belongs in a life that was once hard and lonely but still standing.

“I wore this through the worst of it,” he murmurs. “Kept me warm. Made me feel human.”

He pauses. Looks down at it. “Thought about burning it once. Couldn’t bring myself to.”

He folds it gently, then places it into my lap. The flannel is soft, worn thin at the edges, and it smells faintly of cedar and smoke—of him. The weight of it settles against me like a memory that’s been waiting for a home.

“Didn’t know I was saving it for someone. Guess I was.”

I can’t speak. I don’t dare breathe.

His hand returns to the trunk, pulling free a compass next. It’s heavy in his palm, worn silver with scratches across the casing. The kind of thing that’s been through things.

“Used this in the field,” he says. “Never trusted GPS. This got me back more times than I can count.”

He hesitates.

“I kept it to remind myself there’s always a way home.”

Then his eyes lift to mine.

“But I don’t need that reminder anymore.”

He presses it into my hand. His fingers linger, grounding and steady, until the tremble in mine begins to quiet. I don't realize how tightly I’m holding on until his thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and sure, like he’s giving me permission to let go—just a little.

The final item is the book.

Slim. Weathered. Its pages are yellowed with age. The title is long since rubbed away from the spine, but when he opens it, I see poetry. Lines written like prayers.

He flips to a dog-eared page. The corner creased so long ago it’s nearly torn.

“I don’t remember the first time I marked this,” he says softly. “Just knew it meant something.”

He lets me read.

“Someone once said the world breaks us all, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”

“But I think some of us… We don’t break clean.”

“We stay splintered. Still sharp at the edges.”

“Until someone comes along who knows how to touch the hurt without making it bleed.”

The tears come before I even notice, slipping free just as his thumb finds my cheek—warm and rough from work, steady in its gentleness. The touch is careful, like he’s trying to soothe something far deeper than tears. Gentle. Sure.

I close the book, hold it close.

And whisper, “Why now?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

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