"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you."

- Elbert Hubbard

1:36 a.m

2 days earlier

Though it was past midnight, every single light in the Barber's house were on, full bright. Tim stood on their doorstep, fingers on the door bell. On the way over, he had prepared a speech. Apologetic, sympathetic, and true. But just before ringing in, everything he had wanted to say floated out his mind.

The door swung opened. Under the archway stood Gordon and Matilda Barber. Husband and wife. Father and mother of Stella and Clay. He still wore his working suit, which given the occasion, was a ghastly mirror of a mourning outfit. She wore one of her many flowery dress, white to the bone, her marshmallow fluffed hair drooped to one side. Both their eyes were red from crying, and their cheeks shone from residue tears.

Tim looked up at the two adults, heart beating as fast as guilt could coat him. “Mis-Mister and Missus Barber...” he mumbled, turning his stare down to their feet. “About Stella. And Clay. I'm sorry. I should have protected them. I should have done more. I should-”

Matilda pulled him in, taking his entire body in her arms in a sombre embrace. It was then Tim was reminded of his age. That he was still no more than a child, despite his personality. She cried, and he cried too. Gordon placed a soothing hand on his shoulders.

“Timmy,” the woman said soothingly, her voice a croaking hum. He was reminded of his mother, and how she would hum tunes to get him to sleep when he was younger. “You're family.”

His legs gave way and he sank to his knees, sobbing into her dress. “I-I need to keep going. I-I'm almost done.”

“We know,” she admitted as she rubbed his back. “Stella told us everything. Anything you need. Just say it.”

He nodded fiercely. He shut his eyes tightly in a poor attempt at holding back the tears, but they continued to flood through without stop.

XXX

2:26 a.m

2 days earlier

“Here you go,” Gordon said, opening the door to Stella's room. The two paused at the doorway while Stella's body laid peacefully on the bed. They had dressed her in one of her white dresses, had cleaned her, combed her, and made her as presentable as they could. It wasn't hard. Stella was beautiful in life. Even in death, she had a wispy, nebulous glow.

They had set the thermostat to the lowest temperature, keeping the room at a frosty 10 degrees Celsius. Enough to bring Tim a slight shiver.

Gordon tore his eyes away from his daughter, wiping away a tear that had gathered. “What are you looking for, boy?”

Tim looked away, entering the room and focussing on the desk with all the things they were working on before her suicide. “She would have left me something. Something I could use. She'd probably have left me everything I needed,” he scanned the desk, over the charred photo album and diary. “Something small,” he opened the diary, revealing a sealed envelope with his name on it.

He recalled how after his mother died, he had written a note similar to this. How Stella and Clay comforted him through the days that came after the funeral. How he tore it into pieces in the year that followed. He had never once thought that he would be on the receiving end of one of their letters.

To Gordon, Tim asked, “Did she write one for you too?”

“Of course,” he stated. “She told us everything that happened in them. Said she loved us. Told us to be happy. Told us not to worry cause she'll take care of Clay for us,” his voice broke towards the end.

Tim nodded, breathing in deeply, gathering strength, “What are you planning to do with her body?” he asked. “If there's a funeral, I'd like to be there.”

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“Of course you'll be there,” Gordon replied. “We're going to drive down to the morgue, first thing in the morning. We'll collect Clay and bring him home,” he stopped and licked his dry lips. The words seemingly lost to him as he tried to finish his answer. “We'll wait a day of two. See if all the craziness dies down. Then we'll give them a proper burial.”

“And if it doesn't die down?”

The man paused. Tim could hear him taking breaths after breaths, trying to speak, but always stopping right before the words would come. “We might have to improvise something,” tears rolled down his cheeks again, and the stern looking, monstrously large man Tim had known for years suddenly shrunk in front of him. “Whatever happens, we'll see them off properly.”

He held up the envelope in his hand, staring at his name. “Sorry sir, but do you mind if I read this alone?”

Gordon looked to his daughter, nodded understandingly, and closed the door behind him. Tim listened to the man's footstep echo away.

Pulling up a chair beside the bed, he took sat beside his friend. Carefully, he tore opened the envelope. In it was a photograph wrapped in a bag. He held the picture in the light, depicting a younger Vashmir Commons standing in front of a lumber rack, straw-hat on his head, suspenders on his body, saw in hand.

Also in the envelope was a folded paper and a printed image of an old newspaper article. Setting the article aside, he noticed a strand of hair had settled against Stella's eyelid. Gently, with his finger, he shifted it back to place. Unfolding her note, careful not to damage it, her beautiful cursive words, occasionally muddled by dried spots of tears, littered the page.

My endearing Timothy,

I know you are hurting. You are probably blaming yourself for what happened. Please don't. I chose to do this. I missed my brother and loved him too much. Besides, it would never have worked out between us. After all, I had a huge crush on my brother. Incestuous, scandalous, I know. I think you did too. You never judged though, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

I do hope this letter finds you, and the contents of the envelope. It's all I can give you at this time. I know you made a promise to Clay that you will protect me. Sorry I broke that promise. Let me make it up to you. Let me save you and Sister. And please don't blame Sister. It's not her fault I'm gone. She went through so much, and yet still helped us. We should return that favour at least.

Do you remember the first time we met as a kid? You and brother saved me from a bunch a guys that were picking on me because of my braces. And the two of you got beaten up for it. My heroes. You told me I should just paint my braces white, and I told you to shave yourself bald. You said to give your hair a try, and I said I'd rather date a kettle. I'm going to miss that, wherever I'm going. The back and forth between us.

I hope I can find brother.

“He'll probably find you first.”

Maybe he'll find me.

“That's what I said!”

One day though, I hope we'll find you again.

“The three of us.”

Together again.

Take care of my parents for me. Take care of Sister. Know that you are loved from beyond. Your father loves you. Your mother loves you. Clay loves you. And I love you. Live happily, Timothy Kleve.

Goodbye,

-Stella Barber

He had to hold the note away from his body, for fear that his tears would ruin the last words his friend wrote. Setting the paper and envelope on the bed, Tim took Stella's cold hand in his, crying into it as if he were praying to a god.

“I'll find you,” he cried. “I'll find all of you. I promise.”