Letters at the Tree

At eight years old, moving to the cabin in the middle of the woods seemed like a never-ending vacation, even without my mom. The emptiness of her absence was filled with adventure and exploration and, of course, my dad. His thoughts on it were probably far different than mine though. I mean, an attack of biowarfare on our home that killed countless and forced the rest to live underground, that's enough to cause at least a few gray hairs and more than a few sleepless nights.

Eight years later...