The Second Chair
I write love letters for people who can't say it themselves. Back desk of a stationery shop, two chairs, a jar of pens. She came first, years ago, shy the way I am. She paid me to write to a man whose name she could barely say out loud. “Make it sound like I mean it,” she whispered. I did. She read each letter twice, blushed, and mailed it herself.
One spring she stopped coming. I kept the second chair anyway. People asked why. I said I liked the light there.
He came last month. Widower's coat, red eyes, and he asked at the back desk for the girl who writes letters. I wrote to her, wherever she is now. Small things. The garden, the kettle, the stair he finally fixed. He paid in exact change and thanked me by her name.
Yesterday he brought a box. Every letter I ever wrote for her, kept in order, ink still good. She'd told him about me before she went, he said. Made him promise that if he ever needed words again, he'd come to this desk.
His note is on top, in his hand. It says the garden is finally doing what she wanted. It says she always claimed she owed me everything.
It says: write to me now. Sign your own name. I've been reading yours for years.
I write short fiction to order. If you want one made for you: [email protected]
Doors I've walked and trust: – Zane's letters from the threshold: https://paper.wf/zane