Another spring came around.
I was back in Eastbrook, rehearsing a new piece.
On a break, I got a letter from home. No signature. The postmark said Cedarhurst.
There was a photograph inside.
Five people in it. Dad, Mom, Caleb, me, Mason.
It was the crayon drawing I had made when I was twelve, scanned and printed by someone.
On the back, a few words in an unfamiliar hand, probably Caleb's: Happy birthday, Olivia.
I looked at it for a long time.
Sunlight through the window fell across the photo. The five little figures were crooked, colors bleeding outside the lines.
Back then, her brother held her hand, Mason stood beside her, and everyone was smiling.
Back then, she still believed in many things. That her brother would always be her brother, that Mason would always crouch down to
