**Inky Traces on Old Letters**
The letter arrived in a plain grey envelope, with 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 recognisable in those jagged lines, as though each letter whispered her name. The postmark was dated three weeks ago. Emily knew immediately—who it was from. Her heart clenched, hammering unevenly, as if lagging years behind, a whole lifetime too late.
She hadn’t seen Edward in sixteen years. Not since that wretched autumn when he simply shut the door behind him and walked away, leaving behind his coat, his toothbrush, even the photograph of them both happy on the Brighton pier. He left everything: a half-drunk mug of tea, his razor by the sink, and silence—the worst of his possessions. That silence hummed in the walls, seeped into the pillows, the curtains, the space between days. His absence became his last word, and it was the one that lingered longest.
The letter sat on the kitchen table for an hour. Emily paced, pretending to be busy—washing a mug, wiping the hob, picking up the newspaper without reading it. Eventually, she took the bread knife and slit the envelope carefully. Inside, the paper was thick, slightly rough to the touch, the ink smudged in places—as if his hand had trembled, or he’d scribbled it in haste. She traced the lines with her fingers, not to read them, but to feel the breath of the man who had written them.
*”Em. Don’t know how you are. If you’re even still there. This isn’t about fixing things. I know we can’t. And maybe you don’t want to. Just wanted to say—I remembered. Not always, but more than I’d admit. 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 pause. The air grew thick, like before a storm. As if time itself had held its breath.
She sat. The lingering scent of yesterday’s shepherd’s pie, slightly burnt at the edges. Memories flickered: him laughing, picking apples from the garden tree, the time he brought her that old typewriter: *”Write. Your words deserve to be heard!”* She’d been annoyed then—writing felt frivolous. Now—all she had left were those same words.
The letter was short. Beneath it, an address. A small town in Cornwall. He was there. Or wanted her to think he was. That address wasn’t an invitation—it was a confession: *”I still think of you.”*
The next morning, she boarded a coach.
Not because she missed him. Not because she forgave him. But because she couldn’t leave that letter on the table like a wound left untended. Because it was easier to travel to one place than to spend a lifetime too afraid to step outside. Because sometimes, it’s better to risk an ending than to forever wonder *what if*.
The coach rattled over uneven roads. Outside, snow-dusted villages, grey fences, leaning cottages blurred past. At every bend, she half-expected to see him. No music, no book—just her gaze fixed ahead, as if the answer lay just beyond the next hill.
The house was old, wooden. The gate creaked, like something from a film. The number plaque was barely visible. She stood there a minute, maybe two, breathing hard. Then pushed the door open.
He answered—stooped, a walking stick in hand. His hair greyer, his eyes worn but warm. And in that look was everything: regret, guilt, sixteen years of silence.
*”Em?”*
She nodded.
*”Come in.”*
No embrace, no tears, no accusations. Just two people sitting at a 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—from her to him.
*”Did you think I wouldn’t come?”* she finally asked.
He hesitated. Shrugged.
*”I thought you’d forget. Or learn to live without me. You always were the stronger one.”*
*”I changed,”* she said. *”Not stronger. Just quieter.”*
Then she looked at his hands. On the table, beside his cup, lay a scrap of paper with a smudged ink blot—just like in the letter.
*”You didn’t write to anyone else, did you?”*
He shook his head.
*”Just you. Even the ones I never sent. Always you.”*
*”I haven’t forgiven you,”* she said. *”But I came. Maybe that’s enough.”*
He nodded. Then, out of habit, he reached for the old typewriter. The same one. She recognised it instantly—the scratch on the side, the chipped *”A”* key.
*”Still works,”* he said. *”Sometimes I type. Letters I don’t send. Like talking, just… without replies.”*
Emily looked out the window. Light snow fell—soft, soundless. Clean, like a fresh sheet of paper.
*”Well… maybe today, we write one together?”*
He looked at her. His eyes brightened. He didn’t answer. Just smiled—a little.
And for now, that really was enough.
