The paper inside was thin and slightly yellowed.
Three pages, covered in my own young handwriting — smaller and more careful than it is now, the letters formed with the deliberate effort of someone who was choosing every word.
I read it.
I had written to him about the college dormitory, about how strange it felt to be somewhere new.
I had written about missing the town, missing the familiar streets, missing the way autumn smelled there.
I had written — and I had forgotten this entirely, or perhaps buried it — that I had cried on my first night and thought about calling him and decided not to because I didn’t want him to know I was struggling.
I had written: *I think about you every single day.
I don’t know if that makes things better or worse.
I think it makes them both.*
I had written: *I’m sorry I didn’t stay.
I’m also not sorry.
I don’t know how to explain that.
Maybe you understand it.
You always understood things I couldn’t say properly.*
And at the bottom of the third page, in handwriting that pressed harder into the paper than the rest, as though the pen had needed the extra weight:
*If you ever want to write back, I’ll be here.
I’ll always be here.
I just needed to go first.*
I set the letter down on the table.
Outside, a car passed on the street.
Somewhere nearby a dog barked twice and stopped.
He had read this.
He had held these pages.
He had kept them for fifty-four years in a box that he then placed in another box that he arranged to be delivered to me the day after his funeral.
He had kept my letter longer than most people keep anything.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen.
