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The Creaking Floorboards
Trevor McGinnis stood in the doorway of the old apartment, the key in his hand still warm from the lock. The place had been empty for years, but the smell of pine and mildew clung to the air like a memory he couldn't forget.
He had come back for the box, the one he had left behind when he fled after the argument. The box held letters - letters he had never meant to send, but had written anyway.
The floorboards creaked under his weight as he stepped inside, the same creak that had echoed through the halls when Reuben Henning had first moved in. He hadn't seen Reuben in over a decade, not since the night he had taken the box and left.
The box sat on the kitchen table, untouched, its edges worn by time and neglect. Trevor hesitated, his fingers hovering over the lid as if it might bite him.
He opened it slowly, the sound of the lid lifting like a breath held for too long. Inside were the letters, neatly folded, each one marked with a date and a name - Avery Jewell.
Trevor's hands trembled as he picked up the first letter, the paper brittle and yellowed with age. He read it, and the words struck him like a blow: I can't keep pretending I don't know what you did.
He had known Avery for years, had trusted her, had even confided in her about Reuben. But he had never told her the truth about the night he had taken the box and left Reuben behind.
He had made a choice that night, one he had thought would protect Avery, but it had only hurt her more. Now, years later, the weight of that decision pressed down on him like the old floorboards beneath his feet.
He closed the box and stood, the creak of the floorboards echoing in the silence. He left the apartment with the box in hand, the key still warm in his pocket, and the weight of his choice heavier than ever.