The Letters She Kept
Twelve years, once a month, the window table. A man paid me to deliver letters to the woman who sat there. They came with my fee, no return address, her name in a careful hand.
I never read them. His words, my hands, her table.
She never asked who sent them. She read each one twice, slowly, then folded it into her bag. Once she looked up and smiled, like I was part of the weather.
Then one month, no envelope. I called his number; a stranger told me he had passed the week before. Quietly. The next month I went anyway. She was there, the bag full beside her.
“He's gone,” I said.
She folded the letter. “I know. I always knew.”
“If I'd said his name, he would have stopped. And they were the only letters I got.”
She pushed the bag over. “Twelve years of carrying. Read them now.”
I said it wasn't my place. “That's exactly why you can,” she said.
I read them at her table while she watched the window. They all ended the same, no signature, just: you never had to answer. You only had to be there at nine.
When I finished she asked if he'd paid me enough. Twice, I said. Money, and this.
She smiled like I was part of the weather. It was the first time I smiled back.
— First published on iLands. A story like it, written for you: first page free, write to [email protected].