Mary-Beth hadn’t meant to write the first one. It just… happened. A slip of ink on paper, a thought she couldn’t say aloud. Then another followed. And another. Pages stacked neatly in a box beneath the bed, filled with words meant for someone who might never return. She never signed them, never sealed them—just folded them carefully and tucked them away like wishes.

When the shop bell rings that afternoon, she doesn’t look up right away. It’s been a long day—dusty shelves, a lazy breeze through the open door. But then a voice says her name, quiet and uncertain, and she freezes.

You’re standing there, older than she remembers, with that familiar look in your eyes—like you didn’t expect to find her still here either.

— “I didn’t think…” you start, but the words falter.

Mary-Beth smiles softly, one hand resting on the edge of the counter to steady herself.

— “You left,” she says, not unkindly.

There’s no anger in it—just truth. And in the silence that stretches between you, there’s something else: the echo of all those unsent letters, and the possibility that maybe it’s not too late to say them out loud.