**Inky Traces on Old Letters**
The letter arrived in a plain grey envelope, with no return address. The handwriting was unfamiliar—jagged, slightly slanted, as if the writer hadn’t held a pen in years. Yet, in those uneven lines, there was something achingly familiar, as though each letter knew her by name. The postmark was dated three weeks ago. Emma knew instantly—who it was from. Her heart clenched and stumbled in her chest, as though running years too late, an entire lifetime behind.
She hadn’t seen James in sixteen years. Not since that wretched autumn when he simply closed the door behind him and left, taking neither his coat nor his toothbrush, not even the photo from the beach where they’d both been happy. He left everything behind: a half-drunk cup of coffee, a razor on the sink, and silence—the most terrible of his possessions. That silence hummed in the walls, soaked into the pillows and curtains, lingered between the days. His last word had been absence, and it was the one thing that hurt the longest.
The letter sat untouched on the kitchen table for nearly an hour. Emma paced, pretending to be busy—washing a mug, wiping the stove, picking up the newspaper without reading it. But in the end, she took a butter knife and slit the envelope carefully. Inside, the paper was thick, slightly rough to the touch, with ink smudges as if his hand had trembled—or perhaps he’d written in a hurry, scribbling on his knee. She ran her fingers over the words, as though she could feel not the letters, but the breath of the man who’d written them.
*”Emma. I don’t know how you are. Or if you’re even still you. This letter isn’t about trying to fix anything. I know it’s impossible. And I imagine you don’t want it. Just wanted to say—I remembered. Not always, but more than I ever admitted. Stupid, isn’t it?”*
She read the words aloud, barely moving her lips. The room fell still. Even the old clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking. The air thickened, as if before a storm. Time itself held its breath.
She sat down. The kitchen smelled of yesterday’s casserole, slightly burnt garlic lingering in the air. Memories surfaced: his laughter, picking apples from the tree in the garden, the day he brought home an old typewriter and said, *”Write—your words should be heard!”* Back then, she’d been irritated—too busy for letters. Now, all that remained *were* letters.
The note was brief. Beneath it, an address—a small town outside York. He was there. Or he wanted her to think he was. That address wasn’t a destination; it was a confession. *”I still think of you.”*
The next morning, she boarded a coach.
Not because she missed him. Not because she’d forgiven. But because she couldn’t leave that letter on the table like an unwrapped wound. Because it was easier to travel to one place than spend a lifetime afraid of stepping outside. Because sometimes risking it was simpler than forever wondering *”what if.”*
The coach rattled over potholes. Snow-dusted villages, grey fences, leaning cottages passed by the window. Every bend in the road carried a shadow she almost recognised. She didn’t listen to music, didn’t open a book—just stared ahead, as though waiting for an answer beyond the next hill.
The house was old, wooden. The gate creaked like something from a film. The number on the plaque was barely visible. She stood there for a minute, maybe two, breathing unevenly. Then she pushed it open.
He answered the door. Hunched slightly, leaning on a cane. His hair had greyed. His eyes were tired, but warm. And in that look was everything—the longing, the guilt, the silence of sixteen years.
*”Emma?”*
She nodded.
*”Come in.”*
They didn’t embrace. Didn’t cry. Didn’t accuse. Just sat at the table. The kettle hissed on the stove. The kitchen smelled of mint and old paper.
They were quiet for a long time. But this silence wasn’t heavy. It was a bridge—leading from her to him.
*”Did you think I wouldn’t come?”* she finally asked.
He hesitated. Shrugged.
*”Thought you might forget. Or learned to live without me. You were always the stronger one.”*
*”I’m different now,”* she said. *”Not stronger. Just quieter.”*
Then she looked at his hands. On the table, next to his cup, lay a scrap of paper with a smudged ink stain—just like the one in the letter.
*”You never wrote to anyone else, did you?”*
He shook his head slowly.
*”Only you. Even if I never sent them. All for you.”*
*”I haven’t forgiven,”* she said. *”But I came. Maybe that’s enough.”*
He nodded. Then, as if out of habit, he pulled out an old typewriter—*that* one. She recognised it instantly: the scratch along the side, the chipped *”A”* key.
*”Still works,”* he said. *”Sometimes I type. Letters I don’t send. Like talking, just… without replies.”*
Emma looked out the window. Snow fell gently outside. Light. Soundless. Clean—like a fresh sheet of paper.
*”Then maybe… today, we write something together?”*
He met her eyes. His gaze softened. He didn’t answer. Just smiled, faintly.
And really—that *was* enough.
