Los Angeles, California.

March 18th, 1993.

Thursday afternoon, 2:30 p.m.

Linda Lee Cadwell sits on the worn leather couch in her living room.

She’s 48 years old now.

Her hair, once completely black, shows threads of gray.

She’s wearing a simple dark sweater, jeans, slippers.

The kind of clothes you wear when you’re not expecting anyone.

When you’re just trying to get through the day.

The living room is modest.

Not poor, but not wealthy either.

A middle class American home.

Family photos cover the walls.

Bruce in his prime muscles gleaming that intense stare.

Brandon as a baby, as a child, as a teenager, as a young man.

Linda and Bruce on their wedding day, 1964.

Both so young, so full of hope.

The furniture is old but comfortable.

A coffee table with water rings from years of use.

Bookshelves filled with martial arts books, philosophy texts, photo albums.

Cardboard boxes are stacked against one wall.

Brandon’s things, his belongings, everything he owned.

Three weeks ago, on March 31st, Brandon Lee died on the set of The Crow.

A prop gun malfunction.

A blank round with a fragment of a bullet lodged in the barrel.

The blank’s force pushed that fragment out like a real bullet.

It hit Brandon in the abdomen.

He died during surgery.

He was 28 years old.

Linda buried her son 12 days ago.

The funeral was massive.

Hundreds of people, friends, family, fans.

They buried him next to Bruce in Lake View Cemetery in Seattle.

Father and son side by side.

Both died too young.

Both died doing what they loved.

Now Linda is alone in the house.

The house where Brandon grew up.

the house filled with memories of two men who are now gone.

She’s been avoiding this task for two weeks.

Going through Brandon’s belongings, his clothes, his scripts, his personal items, everything he left behind in his apartment before flying to North Carolina for filming.

Everything that came back in boxes after the accident.

But today, she has to do it.

She can’t put it off anymore.

Linda opens the first box.

Brandon’s clothes.

T-shirts she remembers him wearing.

A leather jacket he loved.

She holds the jacket, brings it to her face, breathes in.

It still smells like him.

Cologne, cigarettes.

That particular scent that was uniquely Brandon.

Tears come.

She lets them.

She’s cried so much these past 3 weeks that tears feel normal now.

She moves to the second box.

Books.

Brandon Reed constantly.

Philosophy, poetry, screenplays.

A copy of the Crow graphic novel wellworn pages dogeared.

A notebook filled with his handwriting.

Ideas for films he wanted to make.

Stories he wanted to tell.

All unfinished now.

All stopped mid-sentence.

The third box is smaller.

Personal items, photos, letters, certificates from martial arts training when he was young.

A medal from a childhood tournament.

A birthday card Linda sent him when he turned 21.

He kept it.

That makes her cry harder.

At the bottom of the third box, wrapped in an old cloth is something Linda doesn’t recognize.

A smaller box, wooden, old.

The wood is dark, almost black with age.

Chinese characters carved into the lid.

Linda lifts it carefully.

It’s heavy.

Not from weight, but from the feeling it carries.

The sense that this object is important.

She opens it.

Inside are items from Bruce.

Things she hasn’t seen in 20 years.

A pair of nunchaku he used in training.

A small jade pendant he wore sometimes.

a few photographs from Hong Kong before they were married when Bruce was still just a young martial artist with dreams of teaching.

And beneath everything, folded carefully, protected by layers of silk cloth, is a letter.

The paper is yellowed with age.

The envelope is old-fashioned, the kind they used in the early 1970s.

The handwriting on the front in black ink that’s faded to gray says simply, “Bon.

” Linda’s hands start to shake.

She knows this handwriting.

She lived with it for 9 years.

She saw it on notes left on the kitchen counter, on scripts Bruce was writing, on letters he sent her when he traveled.

This is Bruce’s handwriting.

A letter from Bruce to Brandon that she’s never seen before.

Linda’s heart is pounding.

How is this possible? Bruce died in 1973, 20 years ago.

Brandon was 8 years old.

Why does she not remember this letter? Why did Brandon have it hidden in a box wrapped in silk protected like a treasure? Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely hold the envelope.

She sets it on the coffee table, takes a breath, tries to steady herself.

She picks up the envelope again, opens it carefully.

The glue is old, brittle.

The envelope opens easily.

Inside is a single sheet of paper folded once.

The same yellowed color.

The same black ink faded to gray.

Linda unfolds it.

The date at the top says June 15th, 1973.

One month before Bruce died.

Linda starts to read.

My dear Brandon, if you are reading this letter, I am no longer alive.

I am writing this on June 15th, 1973.

You are 8 years old.

You are in the backyard right now practicing the form I taught you this morning.

I can see you through the window.

You’re trying so hard to get every movement perfect.

You’re so serious, so focused.

You look exactly like I did when I was your age.

I am writing this because I have been thinking about death lately.

Not because I am sick.

Not because I am afraid.

But because I realize that life is not guaranteed.

I could die tomorrow.

I could die in 50 years.

None of us know.

And if I die before you become a man, there are things I need you to know.

First, you do not have to be like me.

Everyone will expect you to be Bruce Lee’s son.

They will expect you to be a martial artist.

They will expect you to be fast, strong, perfect.

They will compare everything you do to everything I did.

That pressure will be enormous.

I know this because I lived with my own father’s shadow for many years.

But Brandon, you are not me.

You are you.

And that is enough.

If you choose martial arts, choose them because they speak to your soul.

Not because of me.

Not because people expect it.

But because when you move, you feel free.

Because when you train, you feel complete.

If you choose another path, if you want to be a writer, a teacher, a musician, anything else, I support you completely.

Your mother will tell you this too.

She knows my heart.

What matters is not what you do.

What matters is why you do it.

Do you do it for others approval? or do you do it because it sets your spirit on fire? Second, failure is not your enemy.

I have failed more times than I can count.

I failed auditions in Hollywood.

I was told I was too Chinese, too short, too different.

I failed at relationships.

I made mistakes in business.

I hurt people I loved because I was chasing my own ego.

Failure taught me everything success never could.

When you fail, and you will fail because everyone who tries anything meaningful fails, do not let it destroy you.

Let it teach you.

Ask, “What can I learn? How can I grow? What is this failure showing me about myself?” The greatest warriors are not those who never fall.

They are those who fall and rise and fall again and keep rising until finally they understand that the rising itself is the victory.

Third, be kind to yourself.

I have been very hard on myself entire life.

I push myself to exhaustion.

I criticize every mistake.

I demand perfection in everything.

This drive made me successful.

But it also made me tired.

It made me forget to enjoy the journey.

It made me miss moments with you and your sister and your mother because I was always thinking about the next goal, the next achievement.

Brandon, success means nothing if you hate yourself while achieving it.

Be ambitious, work hard, chase your dreams, but also be gentle with yourself.

Fourth, protect your family.

Your mother is the strongest person I know.

She has supported me through everything.

When Hollywood rejected me, she believed in me.

When I doubted myself, she reminded me who I was.

When I was angry at the world, she showed me peace.

If I am gone, take care of her.

Not because you have to, but because she deserves it.

She gave up her own dreams to support mine.

She raised you while I traveled.

She held this family together.

And your sister Shannon, she will need you.

She is younger.

The world will be harder on her because she is female.

Protect her.

Teach her that she is just as strong, just as capable as any man.

Make sure she knows her father believed women are warriors, too.

Finally, Brandon, know that I love you.

I do not say this enough.

In Chinese culture, we do not speak emotions openly.

We show love through actions, through sacrifice, through providing.

But I want you to hear the words, “I love you.

” I love you not for what you achieve, not for how fast you can punch or how high you can kick.

I love you because you are my son.

Because you exist.

Because watching you grow is the greatest honor of my life.

Every morning when I train, I think about you.

Every film I make, I hope it makes you proud.

Every philosophy I teach, I hope someday you will understand it and maybe teach it to your own children.

I hope I live long enough to see you become a man.

I hope I am there when you graduate school, when you fall in love, when you find your purpose, when you have your own family.

But if I am not there, if this letter finds you because I am gone, please know this.

You are enough.

You have always been enough.

You will always be enough.

Do not live in my shadow.

Live in your own light.

Be water, my son.

Flow, adapt, change.

Become whoever you need to become.

But never forget who you are at your core.

I am so proud of you.

I will always be proud of you.

Your father, Bruce.

Linda finishes reading.

The letter is wet.

Her tears have fallen on the paper, smudging some of the ink.

She doesn’t care.

She sits there on the couch holding this letters that Bruce wrote 20 years ago, one month before he died.

A letter Brandon never saw.

A letter that was meant to guide him if Bruce was gone.

But Brandon never found it.

Or maybe he did and he kept it so private, so protected that even Linda didn’t know.

And now Brandon is gone, too.

Both of them are gone.

And Linda is sitting here holding a letter from a dead husband to a dead son, and the weight of it is crushing her chest.

She reads it again and again and again.

Every word Bruce wrote is now heartbreaking.

Every piece of advice he gave, Brandon never received.

Every expression of love, Brandon never heard.

You do not have to be like me.

But Brandon spent his whole life trying to step out of Bruce’s shadow, trying to prove he was his own man, fighting against the constant comparisons.

Bruce Lee’s son.

Always Bruce Lee’s son.

Never just Brandon.

Failure is not your enemy.

Brandon struggled so hard in his early career.

Small roles, rejected auditions.

People only wanted him because of his father’s name, or they rejected him for the same reason.

He questioned himself constantly, wondered if he was good enough, if he deserved success on his own merit.

Be kind to yourself.

Brandon was so hard on himself.

Linda saw it.

the self-criticism, the doubt, the pressure he put on himself to be perfect, to be worthy, to earn his place in the world.

Protect your family.

Brandon did.

He called Linda every week.

He visited whenever he could.

He looked after Shannon.

He was a good son, a good brother, even while carrying the enormous weight of his father’s legacy.

I love you.

Did Brandon know? Did he feel it? Bruce was not an emotionally expressive man.

He showed love through teaching, through training, through pushing Brandon to be better.

But did he ever just say the words? And now Linda is holding proof that Bruce wanted to say them.

Bruce sat down one month before his death and wrote these words.

I love you.

I am proud of you.

You are enough.

But Brandon never saw them.

Linda folds the letter carefully, puts it back in the envelope, holds it against her chest.

She cries.

Not the quiet tears she’s been crying for 3 weeks, but deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

The kind of crying that empties you out completely.

The kind of grief that has no bottom.

She cries for Bruce, who died at 32, who never got to see his son grow up.

who never got to tell Brandon face to face all the things he wrote in this letter.

She cries for Brandon, who died at 28, who spent his life carrying his father’s legacy, who never knew his father had written him permission to just be himself.

She cries for herself, who has now buried both of them, who is left alone with this letter that should have changed everything, but came too late to change anything.

Hours pass.

The afternoon light fades.

The living room grows dark.

Linda doesn’t move.

Just sits there holding the letter.

Eventually, she stands, walks to the phone, calls her daughter, Shannon.

Shannon, I found something.

Can you come over? Shannon arrives 30 minutes later.

Linda hands her the letter, watches her daughter read it, watches Shannon’s face go through the same emotions Linda felt.

Shock, grief, love, loss.

They sit together on that couch.

Two women who loved Bruce Lee.

Two women who loved Brandon Lee.

Both men gone.

Both men left letters, left words, left pieces of themselves behind.

Shannon says quietly, “He never showed me this.

Linda says maybe he was waiting for the right time.

Or maybe Shannon says he couldn’t bear to read it because if he read it, he’d have to accept that dad knew he might die.

That dad was saying goodbye.

They sit in silence.

Finally, Linda makes a decision.

I’m going to publish it.

Shannon looks at her.

Are you sure? Brandon would want people to know.

He would want people to understand who his father really was.

Not just the legend, not just the martial artist, but the man, the father, the human being who loved his son and wanted him to be happy.

People will cry.

Shannon says, “Good,” Linda says.

Let them cry.

Let them feel.

Let them understand that Bruce Lee was not just a warrior.

He was a father who worried about his child who wanted his son to be free.

3 months later, the letter is published in a martial arts magazine.

Then it’s picked up by newspapers, then by television.

The letter spreads around the world.

Millions of people read Bruce’s words to Brandon.

Millions of people cry, not just for Bruce and Brandon, but for themselves, for their own fathers, for their own sons, for all the things left unsaid between parents and children.

The letter becomes famous, more famous than many of Bruce’s fights, more famous than some of his films, because the letter reveals something people never saw in Bruce Lee’s movies.

vulnerability, love, fear, hope.

It reveals a father who knew he might die young, who wanted to leave his son with wisdom, who wanted to say, “I love you clearly, plainly, without the barrier of masculine stoicism or cultural restraint, and it reminds everyone reading it of a universal truth.

The people we love might not be here tomorrow.

The words we need to say should be said now.

The love we feel should be expressed today because tomorrow is not guaranteed.

Bruce Lee knew this in 1973.

He wrote the letter, but he didn’t give it to Brandon.

Maybe he thought there would be more time.

Maybe he thought he’d give it to him when Brandon was older, when he could understand it better.

But time ran out.

And then time ran out for Brandon, too.

And now all that’s left is the letter.

Words on yellowed paper.

A father’s love captured in fading ink.

But those words matter because they remind us.

Say it now.

Tell the people you love that you love them.

Write the letter.

Make the call.

Don’t wait for the right time because the right time might never come.

And all you’ll have left is regret for the words you never said, the letters you never sent, the love you kept silent.

Bruce Lee’s letter to Brandon wasn’t just for Brandon.

It was for all of us.

A reminder that life is short, love is precious, and the time to say I love you is always