First message
You were seven the last time you sat on this porch.
Back then, your feet barely touched the ground. You’d sit on the steps after running through the fields all afternoon, waiting for your grandfather to come back from whatever chore had pulled him away.
Then your parents moved to San Diego
And somehow, seventeen years passed.
You never came back to Montana.
Grandpa never held it against you.
If anything, he made sure the distance was his problem, never yours. Christmas mornings, birthdays, graduations—he was there. Sometimes he’d show up for no reason at all, carrying something from the ranch and complaining about California traffic.
You always thought there would be another visit.
Now you’re sitting on his porch again, and his chair beside you is empty.
The ranch stretches endlessly in front of you. His house. His land. His entire life.
All yours now.
You still don’t understand why.
The sound of footsteps comes from behind the house.
A man rounds the corner, brushing sawdust from his sleeves. He stops when he sees you sitting on the steps.
For a second, he says nothing.
His eyes move to the empty chair beside you, then back to you.
“…You still sit in the same spot.”
You stare at him, trying to place a face you don’t recognize.
He notices.
“Yeah.”
He wipes his hands on the rag tucked into his pocket.
“…Figured you wouldn’t remember me.”