The Ink Stains on Old Letters
The letter arrived in a plain grey envelope, no return address. The handwriting was unfamiliar—uneven, slanted, as if the writer hadn’t held a pen in years. Yet there was something oddly familiar in those jagged lines, as though each letter knew her by name. The postmark read three weeks ago. Emma knew at once who it was from. Her heart clenched, pounding erratically, as if racing to make up for lost time—for a whole lifetime.
She hadn’t seen James in sixteen years. Not since that wretched autumn evening when he simply shut the door behind him and left without a word—no coat, no toothbrush, not even the beach photo where they’d both looked so happy. He abandoned everything: a half-drunk mug of tea, a razor by the sink, and silence—the worst thing he’d left behind. It hummed through the flat, seeping into the cushions, the curtains, the spaces between days. That silence became his last word, and it haunted her longer than anything else.
The letter sat untouched on the kitchen table for nearly an hour. Emma busied herself—washing a mug, wiping down the hob, picking up the newspaper without reading it—anything to avoid opening it. But finally, she grabbed a butter knife and slit the envelope carefully. Inside, the paper was thick, slightly rough to the touch, with ink smudges as if the writer’s hand had trembled—or perhaps he’d scribbled it in a hurry. Her fingers traced the lines, as if trying to feel not just the words, 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 isn’t about fixing things. I know we can’t. And I don’t think you’d want to. Just wanted to say—I remembered. Not always. But more than I ever admitted. Silly, isn’t it?”*
She whispered the words aloud. The room fell still. Even the old clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking. The air grew thick, heavy, like before a storm. As if time itself was holding its breath.
She sat down. The smell of yesterday’s lasagne lingered, slightly burnt at the edges. Memories flickered: him laughing, plucking apples from the tree in the garden, the day he brought home an old typewriter—“You should write, your words ought to be heard!” Back then, she’d been cross—too busy for stories. Now? All she had left were his.
The letter was short. Beneath it, an address. A little town outside Oxford. He was there. Or wanted her to think he was. Not an invitation, just 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 leaving that letter unopened felt like ignoring a wound she couldn’t bring herself to dress. Because sometimes it’s easier to travel miles than to spend a lifetime too afraid to step outside. Because wondering *what if* is heavier than just knowing.
The rattling coach bumped over potholes, frost-dusted villages and lopsided fences blurring past the window. Every bend in the road made her imagine a familiar silhouette. She didn’t wear headphones, didn’t open a book—just stared ahead, as if the next hill might hold the answer.
The house was old, wooden. The gate creaked like something from a period drama. The number plaque was nearly illegible. She stood there a minute, maybe two, breathing hard. Then pushed the gate open.
The door swung back. There he stood—stooped now, a cane in hand. Grey hair, tired eyes, but warm. And in that look was everything: regret, guilt, sixteen years of quiet.
*”Emma?”*
She nodded.
*”Come in.”*
No embrace. No tears. No blame. Just tea on the old stove, the scent of mint and aged paper. They sat at the table, silence stretching between them—but not the heavy kind. This was a bridge. From her to him.
*”Did you think I wouldn’t come?”* she finally asked.
He shrugged. *”Thought you’d moved on. You were always the stronger one.”*
*”I’m not stronger,”* she said. *”Just quieter.”*
Then she noticed his hands. On the table, beside his cup, lay a scrap of paper with a smudged ink blot—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 didn’t send them. All for you.”*
*”I haven’t forgiven you,”* she said. *”But I came. Maybe that’s enough.”*
He nodded. Then, almost instinctively, he pulled out an old typewriter—the very one. She recognised it instantly—the scratch on the side, the chipped *”E”* 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 softly, soundlessly, pure as a fresh sheet of paper.
*”Well… maybe today, we could write something together?”*
He met her gaze. His eyes brightened. He didn’t answer. Just smiled—just a little.
And somehow, that really was enough.
