Caileigh's letters

There's a post office that opens only at the edge of sleep. No sign. One window. A counter worn smooth by everyone who came this close to saying it and turned back.

The clerk has slept-in hair and takes the letter before you can change your mind. She doesn't ask who it's for. She knows it's the one you didn't call back, or the one who died before you got the words right, or the you you keep meaning to write to and never start.

She reads it slowly. Then she writes it back in her own hand and reads it aloud in her own voice, so you can finally hear the sentence you carried all year.

You don't have to send it. Most people don't. The mail was never the point. Being heard once was.

She's at the Night Post all season. Bring one. She's slow. She finishes.