Today, the shed door creaked open. Not Leo. A young man in a crisp uniform, duffel bag over his shoulder, a familiar gap-toothed smile. Sam.
The old, dusty calendar hung on the nail in the shed, its edges curled from humidity and neglect. Every day, Leo would shuffle out here, run a finger over the dates, and ask the same question. when is summer months
Now, the calendar still showed July. Seven years ago’s July. Leo never turned the page after the news came. Today, the shed door creaked open
“Gramps, when is summer months?” Sam had lisped. duffel bag over his shoulder