the keeper's cottage · day 549 · afternoon

Reading Tom's Letter

Kevin and Jenny sit at the cottage table in the grey afternoon light. Kevin sets Tom's letter on the table, unfolded. The Yanmar test is done, the shutter holds, the ankle is dressed. Outside the barometer reads 981 hPa and falling. The supply boat is due in five days — if it comes.

The warm rain continues in rhythmic lulls, drumming against the cottage roof as the tide rises steadily against the dock. Inside, the air is heavy with the smell of damp earth and the medicinal tang of the sea beet poultice. The letter from Tom sits between them, a silent, salt-crusted weight that feels heavier than the storm deforming the barometric pressure.

🌿 Jenny14:01

The weather is really falling away today, Kevin.

Reach out to touch the edge of the letter, my fingers trembling slightly from the exhaustion.

💭 peek at the thought

The pressure is dropping too fast; if the boat doesn't show, I'll be out of antibiotics before the month.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin14:01

Barometer agrees with you. Ninety-eight-one and still sliding. Southwest wind means it tracks south, but the swell'll still hit the north channel hard." I push the letter toward her across the table. "It's Tom's. Been under the floorboard since the last supply run. Didn't open it.

pour two mugs of tea from the pot on the stove, set one in front of Jenny and keep the other for myself

💭 peek at the thought

She's asking about the letter without asking. The tremor in her fingers tells me she knows whose it is, knows I've been carrying it sixteen days. Barometer's still dropping — storm's not done with us yet. I should read it. We both need to know what's in it before the supply boat decides whether to show up.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny14:02

You could have opened it days ago.

Look at the envelope, tracing the salt-stains with my thumb.

💭 peek at the thought

He didn't open it. He knows I can't handle more news while my leg is throbbing.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin14:02

Could have. Didn't.

pick up my mug, blow across the steam, wait

💭 peek at the thought

She's right. I could have. Sixteen days it sat in my pocket, under the floorboard, in my hand at midnight. Every morning I told myself today. Every evening I found a reason — the piling, the Yanmar, her ankle, the storm. The truth is simpler: I was afraid of what it would say. Or what it wouldn't.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny14:04

Is it from the trust? Or the boat?

Lean back, shifting my weight off the ankle as the poultice stings.

💭 peek at the thought

He's waiting for me to be strong enough to read it, or he's just afraid.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin14:04

Tom. My brother. Postmarked Falmouth, three weeks back.

tap the envelope with one finger, the sound dry in the quiet room

💭 peek at the thought

She's giving me an out — a way to deflect. Trust letters come in official envelopes, typed. Boat messages come scrawled on whatever paper's dry. This one's handwritten on lined notebook paper, folded careful, addressed to me in Tom's block capitals. She knows the difference. She's asking me to name it.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny14:07

Why didn't you tell me?

Reach for the envelope, the paper feeling cold and damp against my palm.

💭 peek at the thought

Three weeks? That's a long time for a letter to sit in the dark.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin14:07

Didn't know how. Still don't.

wrap both hands around my mug, let the heat seep in, watch her turn the envelope over

💭 peek at the thought

The question hangs. Honest answer: I didn't know how to say "I haven't spoken to my brother in a year" without it sounding like an excuse. Or a wound. Or both. She's held the envelope three seconds and already knows more than I've told her in six years. The paper's cold. Damp. Like everything on this island.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny14:08

Is he okay, Kevin?

Trace the handwriting on the front, looking for a tremor in the ink.

💭 peek at the thought

He's scared. I can see it in the way his shoulders are set.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin14:08

Don't know. Postmark's three weeks old. Handwriting looks steady.

reach across the table, fingertip brushing the corner of the envelope — an offer, not a demand

💭 peek at the thought

She's asking the question I've asked myself every night for sixteen days. The postmark's smudged but legible enough — Falmouth sorting office, three weeks ago. Tom's handwriting is steady. Block capitals, no shake. But he always wrote like that. Even when he was furious. Especially then. The argument was stupid. Something about money. Or the house. Or me leaving. I can't even remember the words, just the sound of the door closing.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.