My Darling Abigail sits so pretty and endearing on the page, more tender than any words they’d ever exchanged aloud. The pair of them pour over the letter, Abigail clasping the yellowed edge tightly as Jack’s eyes dart along the page. Jack reads the letter quietly, mumbling slightly over certain parts before Abigail gently reminds him to speak up.

“Together, we’ve built you a home. I hope soon to show it to you,” Jack says softly, brows dipping as his eyes strain against indelicate printing.

“I miss you and the boy more than I can express. Please, come back to me. Yours always, John.”

John reads the same page ten times over before turning it. His thumb hovers above the handwriting and the drawings, mindful not to tarnish the brittle paper with his ash-stained fingertips. The handwriting is nicer than his own, neater and more purposeful with the darkness of the lead in certain areas and the thoughtful shading to highlight details John wouldn't even think to search for.

He lingers on certain pages, like the one about Abigail that makes him scoff for only the cicadas and restless deer to hear. Selfishly, he’s grateful Abigail was enough of a fool back then to look to him rather than Arthur.

Among old jealousy and rivalry is the ever-present sense of inadequacy that festers just as violently as it did when John was somehow more of a fool than he is now.

Even in death, John would find a way to be mad at him. When he comes to the final page, all that anger churns his stomach.