As the first anniversary of the night I came home got closer, Finn stood in the kitchen doorway holding his old phone.

He was taller now, his speech clearer, his hair freshly trimmed.

The scar on his forearm had faded, though it would likely always be there.

He asked if I would read something he had written.

I had learned not to assume every note was meant for me.

Sometimes he used the phone to write jokes, lists of reptile facts, or reminders to feed Rig.

Other entries were only for him.