The letter began as a mistake. She hadn’t meant to write it—only to test the pen, to see if the ink still ran smooth. But the words arrived before she could stop them.  

*Dear you,*  

Lila stared at the page. The ink pooled slightly at the curve of the y, as if hesitating. She waited for guilt to come and was surprised when it didn’t.  

Morning rested gently across the room. Dust turned in the air like pale threads, each glinting before it disappeared. On the desk lay the half postcard, the tear through its middle softer now, edges curling with time.  

She wrote again.  

*It’s quieter now. Jake says the river’s higher than usual. The bridge looks smaller because of it. Funny how things don’t really change—they just change what they’re compared to.*  

Her hand slowed. She watched the words form, neat and even, like she had written them many times before.  

The house hummed with small sounds: the creak of wood, the whisper of curtains, the faint tick of a clock she couldn’t see.  

She wrote:  

*I think of the road past the bend. The one that never stays dry. You said it was honest because it never pretended to hold. I didn’t understand then. I do now.*  

She paused. The page beneath her hand was warm from the light.  

*I don’t know if this counts as remembering or refusing to forget. Either way, it’s the same kind of ache.*  

The pen caught slightly at the edge of the paper, leaving a darker mark. She touched it, smearing the ink with her thumb until it looked like a shadow.  

Somewhere outside, a door closed—Jake leaving for town. His truck engine rumbled, faded. The sound rolled over the hill like slow thunder, then was gone.  

Lila set the pen down and leaned back. The room smelled faintly of graphite and rain.  

She thought of how names used to fill the air between them—spoken, written, carried in letters. How easily they’d turned from comfort to distance.  

She whispered, “Noah,” not as a call but as a test of memory.  

The name felt lighter than she remembered, and somehow that was worse.  

She picked up the pen again.  

*I don’t think forgetting means what we thought. Maybe it isn’t about losing. Maybe it’s about holding something so gently that it stops hurting.*  

Lila paused, reading the line back. The pen shook a little in her hand. She set it down, breathing through the quiet that followed.  

Outside, the afternoon had softened. The light pressed through the window in long lines, crossing the table, the letter, her wrist. The air smelled faintly of rain, though the sky stayed clear.  

She turned the paper over, but the page beneath showed the shape of her words—shadow lines seeping through the grain.  

Jake’s footsteps sounded from the porch.  

“You’re writing,” he said.  

“Just testing a pen.”  

“That’s a long test.”  

She smiled. “You checking on me or the house?”  

“Both.”  

He stepped inside, glancing toward the desk. “You look different.”  

“How so?”  

“Like you’re not waiting for something.”  

She folded the paper once, twice, slid it into an envelope without sealing it.  

“Want me to take it?”  

“It’s not going anywhere.”  

He nodded. “Maybe that’s fine.”  

He reached for the sketchbook, flipping through until he found the newest drawing—the bend in the road, the faint shimmer of water, a small figure standing by the bridge.  

“Is that you?”  

“Could be.”  

“Looks like him.”  

“Maybe it’s both.”  

He looked at her, then closed the book. “You ever think names are just places we stand until we move again?”  

She smiled. “That’s too poetic for you.”  

“I’ve been listening to you talk too much.”  

They laughed, quietly.  

When he left, the house returned to its slower rhythm. Lila sealed the letter, though she had no address. She placed it under the half postcard, the paper edges aligned.  

Through the open window came the faint rush of the river, steady as breath.  

She whispered, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”  

The light on the desk dimmed, and the air moved once—soft, like an answer.  

She didn’t move.  

The ink dried on the page, turning from black to the color of memory.  

And outside, the wind carried a name it didn’t need to keep.