032 — The Forgotten Letter | Talon Z. Gray

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My child,

This letter will never reach you.
But if it did,
I would tell you about the night
they took away my name and gave me a number.

I remember the river
—the way we laughed,
how the water caught the sun in its ripples.
Those moments burn like photographs in my mind.

I was waiting to give you the key,
that little iron key I carried everywhere.
I wanted to hand it to you when you were old enough to understand.
But now…
the key is only a symbol.
You will never know what it unlocks.

Do you remember your jacket?
We patched the elbow together,
stitched your favorite superhero into it,
and somehow it looked even cooler than before.
You were getting so good at the guitar.
I hope you keep playing.
I hope you became the best.

I don’t know where your mother is.
The boxes are gone.
The photographs are gone.
We had some digital files,
but even those have vanished
—deleted or forgotten.

I wish I could tell you about your great-aunt,
how wild she was,
how the Phoenix Dog Summer became a family legend.

But I can’t.

Where is your face?
Where are your eyes?
Where is your face?
Where are your eyes?

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t hold you one last time.
I wish I could tell you it’s going to be okay.

If by some impossible miracle this letter finds its way to you…

Take it to:
Residents at 786 Main Street, Apt. 9993, [city, zip].
Don’t throw me away.
Don’t throw my child away.
Save us.
We’re just like you.

—Signed, [redacted]