He's lost count of the number of times he has sat like this, his mother's last gift in his shaking hands. The bright paper is a little faded now, the paper soft, and the edges worn. The writing on the envelope was starting to fade from black to grey, but his mother's feminine script was still clearly legible.
Peter
He traces the edge of the package with one finger, gentle like it was a fragile autumn leaf long fallen from the tree.
He wants to open it but at the same time, he doesn't. He wants to keep it like this, frozen in time. It's silly, he knows, but by opening it, it's accepting she's gone, and even after all these years he can't quite accept it. What if he'd missed the doctors bringing her back? What if the machine had been broken? What if his father really had come for her in shining light and cured her? Anything was possible. They could be looking for him this very moment, their little Star Lord, lost amongst the stars.
Or she could just be dead and long buried and this was the only thing he had of her.
He hadn't taken her hand, had refused to look at her properly, in those final moments, their last conversation. He didn't deserve her gift. Her kindness. Her love.
But he needed it. Needed it like he needed air to breathe.
So he sat there, gift still neatly wrapped in his hands, the letter still sealed in its envelope, listening to Awesome Mix 1 and hating himself a little more each time. Eventually he puts them back somewhere safe and promises himself next time. Next time he'll have done something worthy. Next time he'll have the courage. Next time he'll be ready.
Next time is no different.