You Tommy

Cody was turning 15 tomorrow, and the last thing he wanted to be doing was helping his family clean out his grandfather's house.

He hadn't even wanted to go to the funeral. Sitting through it yesterday in that stiff shirt, listening to relatives he barely knew talk about what a great man Bernard Ellis Sr. was—it had felt fake. Too clean. Too shallow. Like trying to paint over a cracked wall.

Gramps' house still held onto him everywhere. The smell of cedar shavings from his workshop mixed with the leather of his favorite reading chair, and underneath it all, that warm scent of pipe tobacco that had soaked into the walls over decades Even the floorboards creaked in the same familiar rhythm when you walked from the kitchen to the living room. Cody had always loved it here. It had felt like a fortress when the world was too loud.

But now the rooms echoed with the wrong kind of noise. Relatives were everywhere—sorting, boxing, and claiming. Cardboard scraped against hardwood. Packing tape ripped and squealed. The cousins thundered up and down the stairs, their sneakers pounding against the worn oak steps that Gramps had climbed carefully, one at a time, in his final months. The adults filled the kitchen with the clatter of casserole dishes and the pop-hiss of cheap beer cans. Nobody looked like they were mourning. Just…waiting for something valuable to claim.

The refrigerator hummed its old, labored tune. The grandfather clock in the hallway—the one Gramps wound every Sunday—had stopped at 3:47, its pendulum hanging silent behind the glass door.

Cody had just reached for a soda when he heard it behind him—low, but pointed enough to cut through the kitchen chatter.

"So, is it true?" one cousin muttered, just loud enough. "Cody likes dudes now?"

"Guess so," the other snorted. "He's probably been starin' at us in the locker room for years."

A pause. The refrigerator's hum seemed louder.

"Dude's probably got a hard-on just from being this close."

The laughter that followed wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

It landed like a slap, and Cody felt the sting deep in his chest. His ears burned hot. He swallowed hard and walked away without saying a word, his sneakers silent on the kitchen linoleum while his heart thudded like a warning drum.

He'd told his mom a few weeks ago—blurted it out in frustration one night when he couldn't keep the secret anymore. She hadn't yelled, just stared like she was trying to solve a puzzle with no corners. Since then, it had become the thing no one talked about.

Except now, apparently, everyone knew.

And no one had his back.

No one except Gramps had ever had his back.

Bernard Ellis Sr.—Gramps—hadn't needed words. When Cody told him just a few days before he passed, he hadn't reacted with shock or pity. He hadn't said, *Are you sure?* or *It's just a phase.* He'd just pulled Cody into a long, tight hug that smelled like Old Spice and workshop dust, and held on until Cody stopped shaking. That hug had said everything.

Now he was gone.

And Cody felt more alone than he ever had.

---

He ended up in the basement, trying to disappear into the dust and silence.

Down here, the house felt more like itself. The air was cooler, thick with the smell of old concrete and motor oil from Gramps' workbench. Weak afternoon light filtered through a small, grimy window, casting everything in amber and making the dust motes dance like tiny spirits. The old furnace crouched in the corner like a sleeping giant, its metal sides ticking as it cooled. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness—*plink, plink, plink*—a steady rhythm that had probably been going on for years.

Cody wandered through the maze of boxes and forgotten furniture until something caught his eye—a heavy old cedar chest, tucked under a paint-stained tarp in the far corner. The tarp was thick with dust, and when he pulled it away, it sent up a cloud that made him sneeze.

The chest's brass hinges were green with age, and they squeaked in protest when he lifted the heavy lid. Inside was a carefully preserved piece of history: medals nestled in velvet-lined boxes, folded flags crisp with care, photographs with scalloped edges, and a dress uniform wrapped in yellowed plastic that crinkled when he touched it.

Mom always said Gramps was a war hero. Bronze Star. Purple Heart. But he never talked about the war, not really. Whenever Cody had asked, Gramps would get that far-away look in his eyes, like he was seeing through decades, and change the subject to baseball or fishing or anything else.

Still, Cody had always felt close to him. Even in silence. Especially in silence.

Gramps had been the only one who didn't make him feel ashamed.

He blinked back sudden tears, and a few drops slid down his cheek and splashed onto something near the bottom of the chest—a leather-covered box peeking out from beneath the uniform's plastic wrapping.

Cody wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and pulled the box free. It was smaller than a shoebox, wrapped in richly tooled leather that had gone soft with age and handling. Two worn brass straps with tarnished clasps held it tightly shut. When he ran his fingers over the surface, he could feel the intricate patterns carved into the leather, worn smooth by someone's hands—Gramps' hands.

The leather creaked as he undid the buckles, the brass cold against his fingertips. Even after unclasping them, the box resisted as if it had been sealed shut for decades. When it finally gave way, the smell hit him immediately—cedar and ink - the musty sweetness of old paper and time itself. It was like opening a door to the past.

Inside were small journals with cracked spines, bundles of letters tied with string that had faded from white to cream, and a few photographs tucked carefully into the corner.

He picked up the photograph on top with trembling fingers.

And froze.

It was Gramps.

But not the Gramps Cody knew. This was a young man—maybe nineteen, twenty at most—grinning beside another soldier on a narrow stone bridge, a river winding lazily beneath them. Their uniforms were crisp and snug, hats tilted just slightly, a bit too cocky, like they were trying not to laugh.

But it was the way they stood that made Cody’s breath catch—shoulder to shoulder, their hands so close they seemed magnetized. Just one pinky finger, barely hooked around the other’s, held between them like a secret.

Were they holding hands?

Cody stared. That subtle, defiant gesture felt louder than a kiss. It whispered: I see you.

His heart lurched. His mind flashed back to the theater, to that same electric brush of skin, the same rush of feeling — unspoken, but undeniable.

Cody's heart hammered against his ribs. His mind was replaying that night two weeks ago. The almost-hand-hold with Ben. The electric jolt when their fingers had brushed over the shared armrest. The flush of possibility—followed by the sharp sting of retreat when Ben had pulled away, made a joke, pretended it never happened.

Cody hadn't brought it up again either.

But this photograph—this soft, secret gesture frozen in black and white—it made his stomach twist with something between grief and recognition.

His hands shaking, he turned the photograph over.

In faded blue ink, someone had written:

*To Buzz — I'll always remember the times we spent together.

All my love,

Your Tommy*

Buzz?

Cody stared at the unfamiliar nickname. He'd never heard anyone call Gramps that. His name was Bernard Ellis Sr., and everyone—family, neighbors, even his old army buddies at the VFW—had always called him Bernie or Gramps. But here was someone who'd known him as Buzz, someone who'd held his hand on a bridge somewhere far away and signed a photograph with "all my love."

*Your Tommy.*

Cody's throat felt tight. It wasn't just that Gramps might have been like him.

It was that someone had loved him—had seen him—when the world wouldn't allow it. Someone had called him Buzz and touched his hand and kept that secret for a lifetime.

"Cody? Where are you?" His mother's voice drifted down from the kitchen, followed by the sound of her heels clicking across the hardwood. "Oh, there you are," she said, appearing at the top of the basement stairs. Her voice echoed slightly in the concrete space. "We've got a long drive, sweetheart. And this is going to take more than just one weekend. Let's go get some pizza and head home."

She stood there for a moment—tired, her hair escaping from its ponytail, scanning the maze of boxes without really seeing any of it. The afternoon light from upstairs cast her in silhouette. Then she turned and headed back up, her footsteps fading into the general noise of the house being dismantled.

Cody lingered in the basement's cool embrace.

He looked down at the photograph in his hands, at young Gramps—young Buzz—grinning with someone who'd loved him enough to risk everything, even if only in the smallest gestures. His fingers traced the edge of the photo, feeling its softness.

They wouldn't understand this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Carefully, reverently, he slipped the photograph back into the leather box along with the letters and journals. His backpack sat beside him on the concrete floor, and he unzipped it slowly, the sound sharp in the quiet. He placed the box at the very bottom, beneath his clothes and books, then zipped it shut again.

He wasn't stealing it. He was rescuing it.

He stood in the basement's amber light for a few more seconds, listening to the house above him—the voices, the footsteps, the sound of a life being packed away into boxes. The water still dripped in the darkness. The furnace ticked.

Finally, he closed the cedar chest, the hinges squeaking their protest once more.

Gramps had been Buzz.

And someone named Tommy had loved him.

Cody didn't know the whole story yet.

But he was going to find out.