Leo didn't usually check the mailroom.
Most students didn't, really—not unless they were expecting a care package or had ordered something online. But this morning, after another peaceful walk with Rin and a breakfast that actually included vegetables, he felt like doing something oddly mundane.
So he walked into the old brick building next to the student center, gave his ID to the staff, and was surprised when the woman behind the desk raised her eyebrows.
"There's something for you," she said, reaching beneath the counter.
She returned with a padded envelope. It was plain, but heavy—heavier than paper should be. There was no return address.
Only a handwritten name on the front:
LEO SHEN
The handwriting made him pause.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
---
He didn't open it right away.
Instead, he tucked it under his arm and headed to the music room. It was quiet there during third period, and he had a free slot. Rin was at a science club meeting, and he didn't feel like being around anyone else just yet.
Inside, sunlight spilled across the piano lid.
Leo sat on the bench.
Then slowly opened the package.
Inside was a bundle of envelopes, each labeled in the same handwriting. There were dates—some recent, some from years ago. And at the bottom, a folded letter, sealed with wax.
He recognized the seal.
It was from the school his father had taught at—the school Leo had once called home before moving away.
His throat tightened.
The top letter was labeled: "Open First."
He did.
---
Leo,
I don't know if this will ever reach you. I don't know if you'll ever want to read it. But I'm writing anyway.
Because I owe you something.
You left too quickly. Or maybe I let you go too quietly. I thought distance would make it easier, for both of us. I told myself you needed a clean break. A new city. A better start.
But I should have called. Should have written. Should have told you the truth.
Your father didn't just pass away.
He saved someone.
A student.
He ran into the fire because he thought no one else would.
I know that doesn't change what happened. It doesn't make up for me not being there for you.
But it's the truth.
And you deserve that.
Love,
Mom
---
Leo stared at the letter for a long time.
Then reread it.
Twice.
He hadn't heard from her in over a year. Their last conversation had been clipped, formal. She had been buried in work. He had been buried in grief. Neither of them knew how to speak across that gulf.
But this...
This was something.
He pulled out the next envelope.
It was dated a month after his transfer.
---
Leo,
Today I saw a boy on the subway who looked like you. He had the same shoes you wore last winter. The ones I told you were falling apart.
I thought about walking up to him. About saying something.
But it wasn't you.
I hope you're eating well.
Love,
Mom
---
The letters continued.
Some were full of little updates. Others were half-finished thoughts, scraps of memory she had written and folded away. There was one about his childhood hamster. One about a book they used to read together. One that simply read:
"I miss you. I'm trying."
Leo folded each letter carefully, like it was made of glass.
He didn't realize he was crying until a tear fell on the piano key.
---
By the time he returned to the dorms, the sky was grey.
He passed the courtyard without really seeing it. The world felt muffled, like sound was trapped in cotton.
He entered his room and found Rin waiting, sitting cross-legged on his rug with a book in her lap.
When she looked up, she immediately saw something was wrong.
"Leo?"
He handed her the bundle of letters.
She didn't ask. She just opened the first one and read.
By the time she finished, she was crying too.
---
They sat on the floor, surrounded by memories neither of them had lived through but both could feel.
"Do you want to talk to her?" Rin finally asked.
Leo nodded. "I think I do. I think… I'm ready."
She took his hand.
"Then let's write back."
---
That night, under a warm desk lamp, Leo sat down and picked up a pen.
For the first time in a long time, the words came easily.
He didn't talk about school rankings or grades. He didn't talk about classes or obligations.
He wrote about the way the wind felt behind the music room.
About the friends he'd made.
About a girl who sat beside him and listened without trying to fix him.
And about a scarf that still smelled faintly like autumn.
He didn't know if she'd reply.
But he knew this:
He wasn't broken.
He was just growing.