The door swung opened. Under the archway stood Gordon and Matilda Barber. Husband and wife. Father and mother of Stella and Clay. He still wore his working suit, which given the occasion, was a ghastly mirror of a mourning outfit. She wore one of her many flowery dress, white to the bone, her marshmallow fluffed hair drooped to one side. Both their eyes were red from crying, and their cheeks shone from residue tears.


    Tim looked up at the two adults, heart beating as fast as guilt could coat him. “Mis-Mister and Missus Barber...” he mumbled, turning his stare down to their feet. “About Stella. And Clay. I''m sorry. I should have protected them. I should have done more. I should-”


    Matilda pulled him in, taking his entire body in her arms in a sombre embrace. It was then Tim was reminded of his age. That he was still no more than a child, despite his personality. She cried, and he cried too. Gordon placed a soothing hand on his shoulders.


    “Timmy,” the woman said soothingly, her voice a croaking hum. He was reminded of his mother, and how she would hum tunes to get him to sleep when he was younger. “You''re family.”


    His legs gave way and he sank to his knees, sobbing into her dress. “I-I need to keep going. I-I''m almost done.”


    “We know,” she admitted as she rubbed his back. “Stella told us everything. Anything you need. Just say it.”


    They had set the thermostat to the lowest temperature, keeping the room at a frosty 10 degrees Celsius. Enough to bring Tim a slight shiver.


    Gordon tore his eyes away from his daughter, wiping away a tear that had gathered. “What are you looking for, boy?”


    Tim looked away, entering the room and focussing on the desk with all the things they were working on before her suicide. “She would have left me something. Something I could use. She''d probably have left me everything I needed,” he scanned the desk, over the charred photo album and diary. “Something small,” he opened the diary, revealing a sealed envelope with his name on it.


    He recalled how after his mother died, he had written a note similar to this. How Stella and Clay comforted him through the days that came after the funeral. How he tore it into pieces in the year that followed. He had never once thought that he would be on the receiving end of one of their letters.


    To Gordon, Tim asked, “Did she write one for you too?”


    “Of course,” he stated. “She told us everything that happened in them. Said she loved us. Told us to be happy. Told us not to worry cause she''ll take care of Clay for us,” his voice broke towards the end.


    Tim nodded, breathing in deeply, gathering strength, “What are you planning to do with her body?” he asked. “If there''s a funeral, I''d like to be there.”


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    “Of course you''ll be there,” Gordon replied. “We''re going to drive down to the morgue, first thing in the morning. We''ll collect Clay and bring him home,” he stopped and licked his dry lips. The words seemingly lost to him as he tried to finish his answer. “We''ll wait a day of two. See if all the craziness dies down. Then we''ll give them a proper burial.”


    “And if it doesn''t die down?”


    The man paused. Tim could hear him taking breaths after breaths, trying to speak, but always stopping right before the words would come. “We might have to improvise something,” tears rolled down his cheeks again, and the stern looking, monstrously large man Tim had known for years suddenly shrunk in front of him. “Whatever happens, we''ll see them off properly.”


    He held up the envelope in his hand, staring at his name. “Sorry sir, but do you mind if I read this alone?”


    Gordon looked to his daughter, nodded understandingly, and closed the door behind him. Tim listened to the man''s footstep echo away.


    Pulling up a chair beside the bed, he took sat beside his friend. Carefully, he tore opened the envelope. In it was a photograph wrapped in a bag. He held the picture in the light, depicting a younger Vashmir Commons standing in front of a lumber rack, straw-hat on his head, suspenders on his body, saw in hand.