“Yes,” I said.

“I really think he would.”

Then I noticed something unexpected: the old house had become noisy again.

The silence I’d dreaded on the first Sunday after Arthur’s funeral had been replaced by people who now had reasons to return.

It wasn’t the same as having him alive, and I didn’t pretend it was.

But it felt like an answer to his letter.

We locked the door late that afternoon and walked home under the oak tree.