Forty summers after we made a promise by the lake, three of us returned—older now, slower, but still full of stories. The dock still creaked under our feet, the air smelled like pine and wet earth, and our old bench waited, initials carved and softened by time. We laughed like no time had passed. Then we noticed the empty seat.

Where Earl should’ve been, there was only an envelope. “To Karen, Dale, and Wes,” it read. Inside, his handwriting was shaky but unmistakable. He said he wanted so badly to join us, but life had other plans. He didn’t say what, only that he carried those lake summers in his chest like a second heart.

A hospital stamp told us what he hadn’t: he was sick. We went to find him, but we were too late. In the chapel, his wife met us with tearful eyes and a gentle smile. “He didn’t want to be remembered as anything less than your strongest friend,” she said. “You three were his greatest joy.”

A week later, we stood at his grave beneath the oaks, the wind moving slow through the grass. We shared memories, laughter, and tears. “He didn’t miss the reunion,” someone whispered. “He just arrived early.” And as the breeze passed through the trees, we could almost hear him laughing—right where he’d always been.