Jacob Portman, age fourteen, found a box of tapes and photographs in his grandfathers closet.
He knew he shouldn't be going through them. He knew his grandfather would give him that disappointing look, the one that meant he was mad about something but he wouldn't outright yell about it. Sometimes, Jacob wished he would yell. Just so he wouldn't have to see that look.
But these were photographs he hadn't ever seen before, and he was so sure he had seen all of them. There were tapes he didn't think existed. These were parts of a life he had seen so little of, and truth be told, his curiosity had gotten the best of him. So he dug his dad's old walkman out of whatever box it was hidden away in and popped in the tape labeled "August 7th, 1986".
He didn't listen right away, though. Jacob's interest was in the photographs. They were stored away in an old shoebox, the tapes in a plastic sandwich bag above it, and the initials "J. Stoker" and "E. O'Connor" were carved into the cover by some inkless fountain pen. Jacob recognized the scratches. His grandfather used the same technique on most of his old photo boxes. Before the photos, there was a letter.
In short, unfamiliar handwriting, it read:
Abraham-
I cannot believe I let you convince me of this. Cannot! Believe! I'm being nice to you! You owe me, Portman, and I swear if I ever see you again, I'll take this stuff back myself. But Emma convinced me. Lucky for you, not-so-lucky for me. She called me "heartless". So thank her. What do you need a bunch of old photos for, anyways? Do you miss us that badly? You can always just visit, instead. God knows the Bird would welcome it. Myself, not so much. But nevertheless.
Most of these are dated, and Enoch dug through a bunch of albums to find them. He kept calling it a pet project. I think he just wanted a reason to get rid of them, but what do I know? Some are from Swans. Some are from Peregrines. I didn't bother to order them. Have fun.
With as little regards as possible,
J. Stoker
PS: still waiting for my journals back. mail exists for a reason give me my shit back
Jacob ran his fingers over the note, written on yellowed paper in ink long since dried. His grandfather had never mentioned a " J. Stoker". That must be who these photos once belonged to, who's initials were carved into the shoebox. Interesting.
The first showed two silhouetted figures, standing before a lake, watching a blurred bird swoop past. On the back, in the same handwriting as the note, was Leeds, 1926. Where the hell was Leeds?
The next one didn't have a date. The only thing written on the back was, And this is why we have no good photos of him, yee-haw. Who "him" was wasn't clarified.
Then there was one depicting someone sitting atop a rock, somewhere high up, looking over their shoulder. The date on this one read, Cairnholm, September 1943. The person wasn't named. Jacob thought, maybe, this was the mysterious Jolyne Stoker. Or maybe it wasn't.
The last one Jacob bothered to study looked newer than all the others, and it showed a smiling girl reading a book, her legs propped up on a chair opposite her, her eyes hidden below the kind of hat newspaper boys wore in old movies. The back read, Emma. Nothing else.
There were others, of course, most showing two people, one with a heavily scarred face and the other with raccoon circles around his eyes and wild curls, in various different places, doing various different things. Some blurred by laughter. Some clearly taken without their knowledge, showing the pair lost in conversation, turned away from the camera so the only visible pieces of their faces were in profile. Jacob held these up to the light, squinting his eyes at the boy with the curls. His grandfather didn't have any pictures of these two. He was sure of it. So why did he bother asking this J. Stoker for them?
Maybe the tape had the answer.
Jacob pressed play.