The clock struck 3:50 p.m. when June turned the corner and walked toward the oak tree. The afternoon was crisp; a chilly breeze tugged at her scarf and ruffled her hair. Her pulse kept time with her steps — nervous, excited, unsure.
As she crossed the gravel path and entered the small clearing beneath the sprawling branches, her breath faltered. There he was — Hank— standing with his back toward her, hands in his pocket, staring up into the branches as if searching for something hidden there.
For a moment, June remained silent, letting her eyes linger on him. His silhouette was taller, more filled out than the skinny, bookish boy from high school. His hair was a rich chestnut now, neatly cut but a little tousled by the breeze. His shoulders were strong, a man's frame, not a nervous boy's.
Then, without turning, Hank said quietly, "I hoped you'd come."
June pressed her lips together against a rush of nervousness and walked forward. "I almost didn't." She paused a few feet away. "I was afraid… afraid you'd become a stranger."
He turned then. His greenish-gray eyes — the color of storm clouds over a restless ocean — met hers. There was a softness there, a familiarity that made June realize whatever years had gone by, whatever doubts had filled their separate journeys, this moment was meant to happen.
"I kept every letter you left me, you know." His voice was deep and rich now, a dramatic change from the nervous tremor she remembered in their notes. "Every single word. They kept me anchored when everything else seemed to be falling apart."
June nodded, trying to find her voice. "I kept yours, too." She pressed her hands against her pocket, where the wooden box filled with North's messages remained safely hidden.
For a moment, silence fell — not the awkward silence of two people unsure of what to say, but the comfortable silence of two people letting their hearts connect after years of separation.
Hamk stepped forward and held out his hand. "Would you… walk with me?"
June exhaled, letting her doubts lift away with her breath. She nodded and placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, protective — a touch filled with promises.
Together, side by side under the branches of their cherished oak, North and Light walked forward into whatever future lay in store for them.
Hand in hand, June and Hank walked in silence for a while, letting their surroundings speak for them — the gravel crunch under their feet, the rustling of the leaves above, the chorus of birds settling in for the evening.
As the path opened into a small clearing near Beverley Hills ,Hank slowed and turned toward June. "There's something I want to show you."
June nodded, curiosity battling nervousness in her stomach. She followed him through a small break in the trees to a spot that seemed untouched by time. There, resting against a fallen trunk, was a wooden box — much bigger and more worn than the small box June kept.
"It's filled with letters I meant to send you… but never did." Hank knelt down and opened the box. Inside were neatly stacked envelopes — years' worth of messages — each addressed simply to "Light."
June pressed her knuckles against her lips in disbelief. "Hank… all this time?"
He nodded quietly. "Some nights I'd sit here and write… trying to say everything I felt, everything I wished I'd gotten the chance to tell you. But when it came time to send them… I couldn't. I was afraid — afraid you'd forgotten me… or that you'd moved on."
For a moment, silence fell — thick and heavy with regret. June knelt beside him and opened a few. Inside were love letters, promises, doubts — a rich, intimate view into a soul that had remained hidden from her all these years.
As she turned page after page, her hands trembled. Here were stories of nights when Hank walked past her grandmother's fence just to feel close to her. There were promises to stay, to wait, to be there when she came back — promises kept, in a way, even when years and silence fell between them.
June turned back toward Hank, tears glimmering in her eyes. "I kept your notes in the knothole… but I always wondered if you kept thinking about me, or if you'd forgotten."
He pressed her hands in his. "How could I forget you, Light? You were the best part of me. The person I turned into — the person I am — is because you believed in me when I doubted myself."
For a moment, the world seemed to pause — a perfect, fragile moment when years of silence fell away. Whatever doubts remained were gone; whatever promises were left unfinished seemed within their reach once more.
June pressed her forehead against Hank's shoulder and whispered, "Let's start again. Together."
Hank nodded against her, closing his hands over hers. "Together."
The two remained there in the clearing, surrounded by Han's unfinished letters — promises made in silence — and June felt something deep within her beginning to heal. The years of doubts, questions, and regret seemed to lift, piece by piece, leaf by leaf.
"It's not all your fault we fell silent." June's voice was quieter now, more vulnerable. "I left without a proper goodbye. I was afraid… afraid I'd stay and miss whatever future I thought I was supposed to chase."
Hank nodded, not in judgment but understanding. "I felt powerless. I tried to follow you… or at least find you… but your trail seemed to vanish. All I had were these letters — and the hope that you'd come back."
For a moment, silence fell again, rich and heavy, filled with all the years that had gone by.
June pressed a shaky finger against the stack of notes. "I wish I'd gotten these. I wish I'd gotten a chance to answer you."
Hank sighed. "I wish I'd had the courage to send them."
They walked back toward the trunk of the fallen tree and sat side by side. The bark was smooth from years of rain and the pressure of their hands resting there. The silence between them seemed less oppressive now, more a comfortable peace — a place where regret could be addressed and then let go.
"It's not about the years we missed." June said softly. "It's about what we do with the years we have left."
Hank turned to look at her, letting her words sink in. There were roots tying them together — deep, strong roots — that hadn't withered in their absence from each other. Whatever had gone unfinished in the past was now theirs to resolve, to grow from.
With the fading light glimmering through the branches above, Hank pressed a small leather pouch into June's hands. Inside were two acorns — tokens from their favorite oak, a symbol of renewal and hope.
"Plant these with me?" Hank asked quietly. "Here, near this spot. So we can watch something new grow from our past."
June nodded, closing her hands around the acorns.