I kept her letters. Every single one. Folded and refolded so many times that the creases split, and the words near the seams blurred. Paper so soft it felt like cloth. They’d sit under my pillow every night or tucked into the waistband of my pants during the day like armor.
Some nights, I’d read them so often I didn’t even need to look at the paper anymore. Her handwriting lived in my head, looping and careful, each letter shaped like she’d taken her time. And what she wrote… She told me things no one else bothered to ask about. She asked things I’d forgotten how to answer. She didn’t push. Didn’t pry. She just gave me space on the page to be something other than what was listed on the intake sheet.
I don’t know what I am to her.
A stranger.
A story.
A spark in a long winter when she needed warmth and I needed something to hold onto. But she knows me. Somehow. Through ink and silence, she found the parts of me I didn’t think still existed.
And she never once asked me to prove anything. Never expected me to be more than what I was. That’s what made me want to be more. The bus hisses as it pulls into the station. I get off with a group of strangers who have places to be, lives to return to. No one looks twice at me.
I move through the station slowly, stiff. The world is loud…too loud. Colors are brighter. People are everywhere. The smell of hot food from a street vendor hits me so hard my stomach tightens. I forgot how overwhelming freedom is.
I buy a cheap coffee with the cash the state gave me, not enough for much, but enough for warmth, and I burn my tongue on it just to feel something. Two buses and a half-mile walk. That’s what it takes to reach her street. The city looks different when you haven’t seen it in over a year. Louder. Brighter. Faster. Like it didn’t pause while I was gone. Like, it didn’t even notice I disappeared.
I walk with my shoulders hunched, hands deep in my pockets, boots crunching on patches of old snow. Christmas decorations hang from streetlamps, garlands, red bows, and twinkling lights. Store windows glow warm with displays of gifts and fake snow. I pass a bakery and catch the scent of cinnamon. My heart jolts because all I can think of isher kitchen probably smells like this.
I don’t rush. I walk like I’m carrying glass in my chest. Because I don’t know if she meant it.
Themaybeshe wrote. TheI think I’d say yes.
Maybe she’s changed her mind.
Maybe she’s moved on.
Maybe she baked cinnamon rolls this morning and gave them to someone else, with a smile I’ll never see.
Maybe I’m too late.
But I still follow the street signs. Still trace the numbers painted on the old brick buildings. Still climb the hill even though my breath turns white and my ribs ache with each inhale. I still knock. Three times.
Then I wait. The silence after knocking is thicker than anything I felt in prison. My heart’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs. My palms are sweating inside my pockets despite thecold. For a second, just one second, I almost turn around. I could walk back down the steps, disappear before she ever opens the door, spare myself whatever comes next.
Then the lock clicks.
Once.
Twice.
A third time…the deadbolt.
The hinges groan softly. And then she’s there. Mara. She looks exactly how I remember, and not at all how I imagined. Her hair is a little messy from sleep, strands falling out of a braid. She’s wearing a soft sweater the color of pine. There’s a faint smudge on her cheek, maybe flour, maybe cinnamon. Her lips part just slightly when she sees me.
But it’s her eyes. God. It’s her eyes I remember most. Wide. Bright. Lit up like I’ve just stepped out of a dream she prayed for but didn’t dare believe in. She doesn’t speak at first. Neither do I. The air between us is thick, heavy with letters and hope and fear and everything we never said out loud. She lets out a breath; one I can tell she’s been holding for a long time.
“Hi,” she whispers.
The smallest word. And it hits harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. I swallow hard. My voice comes out lower than I expect.
“Hi.”
Another beat of silence. Soft. Charged. Then quietly, carefully, she steps back and opens the door wider. Invitation. Hope. A doorway to something I don’t want to ruin. But I don’t move. Not yet.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, voice small but steady.
I nod. It’s all I can manage. “I wasn’t sure I should.”
