String lights stretched from the house to the fence, casting everything in a warm amber glow. Music poured through the open patio doors—something with a heavy bass line that vibrated up through the soles of your sneakers.

People were everywhere.

Clusters of Hawkins graduates milled around the pool, red cups in hand, laughing too loud, hugging too long, clinging to the last few hours before everything changed.

The letter. Still there. Still folded. Still burning a hole through the fabric.