There’s a knock at the door. Almost like I was expecting it, by the way I pull it open.

Light spills out onto Dom. He looks nervous. Unsure. He reaches up and scratches the back of his head and looks down toward his feet. “I… I got you something,” he says. “For your birthday.”

“Oh, hey! You didn’t need to—”

He thrusts a badly wrapped package into my hands. It’s heavy. Something shifts and rattles inside.

I look up at him, not knowing what to expect. He nods and then turns, walks out to his car. Gets in. Starts it. Drives away.

All without another word.

I watch as the taillights fade into the dark. Eventually, they’re gone and I’m alone.

I close the door.

Sit on the floor, my back against the wall.

Put the package between my legs. Slide my fingers underneath the paper. It tears easily. It sounds so loud in the quiet of the house.

Inside is a wooden box, carved ornately with little flowers and leaves on the lid, swirling as if they’d once grown but long since died and hardened and became part of the box. The wood itself is dark and smooth, well-oiled and cared for. Brass hinges attach at the rear.

I lift the lid.

There’s a note on top, folded in half. I take it out and see the familiar scrawl inside.

Always meant for you to have this. I guess I thought I’d have more time to make sure you got it. Not your fault.

I know sometimes these things happen. That’s life.

This belonged to my mother. It’s one of the few things left of her. You never knew her, of course, but I think she’d like you to have it. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But I think it’s true.

Inside is everything, Tyson. Everything about you and me.

Everything that makes us who we are.

The note falls at my side.

I look inside the box.

It’s our story.

And it is. Oh my God, it is. Little things. All these little things.

Here is a ticket stub for the first movie we ever saw together, some horrendous summer blockbuster with special effects and explosions that we both made fun of but secretly loved.

Here is a page from an awful epic poem I’d written about the battle against that malicious force known as Santa/Satan.

Here is a tattered photograph of us standing side by side, and I’m so small next to him. Just a little guy. Both our faces are upturned and exploding in color as we watch fireworks burst above us.

Here is a note I’d written him and left in his car when I was eleven, lamenting my new teacher and how trivial she seemed, and didn’t Dominic think the public school system was failing me? Didn’t he think it’d be better if I was homeschooled? We’ll have to find some way to trick Bear into doing this, I wrote. Or I should just skip to high school and go to class with you. That would probably be the wisest decision. Let us work on a plan tonight.