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The mail slid through the slot in the door, landing right on the welcome carpet.
Caryn Pines stood up to grab the mail, walking over to the door. She grabbed the items - bills, more bills, the Oregon Daily?
Caryn opened the newspaper. She stared at the image of a wrecked car, recognizing the license plate - STNLYMBL.
The heading said STAN PINES DEAD.
Caryn's stomach dropped.
Her baby was gone.
Her son, her boy, her mini-me.
Dead.
Caryn fell to the floor, tears streaming down her face. She clutched the newspaper, holding the (probably last) remnants of her son.
“Shut up!” Filbrick yelled from their shared bedroom, slamming the door shut.
Caryn sat in silence, sobbing. She mourned in the quiet family room, silent besides the sound of Sherman's son babbling in the twin's old room-turned nursery.
Caryn remembered how Stan would wake up each morning and give her a massive hug, not knowing he would die and never get to hug her again.
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November 3rd, 1974
Caryn sobbed in front of Stanley's grave. The headstone read “a good-for-nothing boy. 1950-1974”, written by Filbrick
Behind Caryn stood Stanford, silent and still. Stanford seemed... off.
Maybe he just missed his brother. Maybe he was just mourning.
Caryn had asked to have an open-casket funeral, but the priest would not let her. She couldn't see her son one last time.
Caryn kissed the casket, tears running down her face. Her shoulders, hands, and knees were all shaking.
Stanford didn't move, just stared.
“Stanford?” Caryn whispered, looking at her son through her tears.
The boy didn't reply.
“Stanford? Are you going to say goodbye?”
Stanford finally looked up, walking to the casket. He put his hand on it, then stepped back.
And that was it.
Stanley was dead.
And there was no going back.