I unlock the door and push it open. The light in the hallway flickers once and then stays on. The home breathes out around me, calm and eager. I take off my coat and put my luggage down by the door. The welcoming mat gets wet from the rain. My boots leave dark marks on the wood floor.
Be quiet. Too much of it.
I move forward. My palm brushes across the wall, following the pale paint that has chipped where furniture used to scrape against it. I recall sliding my hand here and thinking of a future that never happened. It feels like a grave now.
The couch in the living room is empty. The cushions are full and flawless, like if they're waiting for someone who will never come. I fall down to the edge, and the springs below me sigh. I let my head fall back into the cloth. Memories come back to me: movie nights, quiet laughter, and the brush of his hand as he passed me the popcorn bowl.
I shut my eyes. Take a deep breath. The smell of sandalwood is still there, even though I never lit the candle. I wake up and grab for it on the coffee table. The glass jar sparkles with unfulfilled desires. I turn the lid and smell the wax. It smells like hope and loneliness.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I don't pay attention to it. Anyone can wait. I need this. A minute alone in a house full of spirits.
I get up and walk to the kitchen. Cabinets are clean. Clean, unused dishes placed neatly in the sink. I run my finger over the cool porcelain of the counter. I recall breakfast here: her cooked eggs and my black coffee, and the morning light on her face. It's just me now.
The fridge makes a humming sound. When I open it, it's half full. A box of almond milk, a single jar of mustard, and a wooden dish with apples that are starting to get squishy around the edges. I take the apples out and put them on the counter, looking at each bruise. Like me, bruised.
I take one and bite it. The sweet juice fills my tongue. I carefully eat and listen to the crunch. The taste brings me back to earth. This is my life now, and reality is what it is.
I walk back into the hallway and stop at a door that is closed. My room. My safe place. I don't know what to do. There are memories in every corner of that room. Wedding invitations stuck between books. A picture of us giggling under cherry blossoms. A scarf he left behind someplace, and the smell of him is still faint on it.
I open the door.
The room is empty and yawns. Light comes through the drapes and makes striped shadows on the floor. The bed is made, and the linens are tight. There is just one side of a cushion that can crease.
I walk across the room to the nightstand and grab the picture in the frame. I wore white and he wore black. Our smiles were as dazzling as the sun. My heart hurts. I want to break it. After that, I want to hug it close. I put it on the dresser, face down, instead. I step back, locked off and hidden, like the rest of my heart.
There are clothes hanging in the closet. Each hanger was full of a different outfit I bought to feel like myself or like whoever he wanted me to be. I pull the doors open, and a little bit of sunlight hits the pale walls. I take hangers off one at a time, letting clothing fall to the floor. A blue shirt. Cardigan in gray. The dress I wore on our first date. I let them drop.
Soon, there's a pile at my feet. Ghosts and fabric.
I kneel down and put them in a box. My fingers brush against the soft garment. Once, it felt like hope. It feels like a noose now. I carefully fold it and put it on top. I tape the box tight and seal it.
The bell rings.
My heart is racing in my chest. I stop moving, my breath frozen in my throat. The house is buzzing around me. The wind outside stirs the eaves in the fall. The bell sounds again, this time with a sense of urgency.
I walk through the living room and try to swallow the dry knot in my throat. I look through the peephole. A man in a charcoal suit stands on the porch with an umbrella that is pouring. You can't read his face. He hands me an envelope that is thick, cream-colored, and has my name written in handwriting that I know well.
I open the door a little bit.
"Can I help you?" My voice is guarded.
He gives a nod. "Ms. Bennett, here's your delivery."
I grab the envelope. He looks past me into the home. I shut the door before he can say anything else.
I sit down on the couch with the big mail in my lap. I look at it closely. There's no stamp or return address. Just my name, scrawled as if he were holding the pen: "Isla."
My hands shake. I put a thumbnail beneath the flap and pull it open.
A single piece of paper within. His handwriting spirals across the page: Isla,
I found this letter from you on the steps of my front porch. I couldn't leave it there, lost in the rain. I've read it ten times.
I wish I could take back what I did. I wish I could make a different choice. But fate has a way of pushing us around like hurricanes.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I'm sorry I let you go. If you read this, you should know that every day since has been a lesson in regret.
I don't think you'll answer. I just needed you to know. —Rowan
My chest hurts. The letter slips out of my hand. It flutters down to the pillow next to me. I look at the text. When the rain hit the paper, the ink ran. His admission. His apologies. His truth.
I put my hands on my eyes. I can taste tears—salt, relief, and rage.
How could he reach across time? How could he bother me when I was alone? My safe place?
But I still hurt. Ached nine years ago. Aches now.
I fold the letter and hold it close to my chest. I shut my eyes. I remember how he once ran his fingers along the curvature of my collarbone in amazement. It hurts like a bruise now.
My phone is buzzing. I don't pay attention to it. No one can get in touch with me here. Not yet.
I get up and walk about. The letter is burning in my palms. I can't hold on to it. I can't get rid of it. I can't ignore it.
I walk across the room to the desk by the window. His leather-bound notebook is still there, untouched since he signed the marriage contract. I run my fingers over the spine. I open it to a page with nothing on it. My breath stops.
I put Rowan's letter on the page and press it down. Then I look for a pen. Ink that is black. I write my name in a loop across the paper, but no. My signature should be on divorce papers, not love letters.
I seal the notebook and put his letter inside. Safe. Not seen. A secret statement about how valuable I am.
I move back. My mirror in the window looks at me: pale face, heavy circles, and eyes that are brilliant with tears. I hardly know her.
I look aside. I have to move. To take a breath. To take this house back as mine.
I pick up the last box of clothes and take it to the front door. I go outside with it. There is a gentle click when the door closes. The wind pulls at my hair. The letter in my backpack pushes against my side like a heartbeat of paper.
I put the package on the front step. I tell myself that this is it. This is the first step toward letting go.
Then I put the letter in a bag and put it in my coat. I raise my chin and stroll down the path, past the house that ache owns that is quiet. I stroll until the trees turn into gold and green and memories.
A horn honks behind me. A cab. I get in and give them an address. The driver changes gears. Streetlights, neon signs, and wet pavement glinting in headlights all move by the window.
I unzip my coat in the backseat and take out Rowan's letter. I read it again. I don't anticipate a response. I just wanted you to know.
I grip the page tighter with my fingertips. I fold it three times. I put it in my pocket.
The cab comes to a stop. I pay. I step up onto the curb. The city buzzes around me. Life is full of light and urgency.
I take a deep breath. I put the letter on my thigh to rest. Heavy. For real.
I take out my phone. I send a message that says, "I booked a room for the night." I will write tomorrow.
I pause, my hand hovering over the send button. Then I push. I can't answer him yet. Not tonight.
I leave. The street in front of me is full with options. The letter is heavy in my pocket. Hope is just as heavy.
I stop at a crossroad. The traffic signal ahead goes green. I move forward. The sound of each footstep is distinct on the pavement.
The house behind me is quiet, and shadows move across the windows. The candle within waits to be lit, as a secret letter slumber in a notepad.
I stroll toward the neon lights of a bistro on the corner. I want coffee. I need sound. I have to show myself that I'm still living. That I have the choice.
I push the door open. Warmth rushes forth. Jazz music bursts out of the booths. A barista smiles. It's warm and human.
I sit down on a stool and order a black coffee with an extra shot. I put my chin on the counter and cross my arms.
The mug falls in front of me. In the morning, steam rises, making a pleasant promise.
I hold it in my hands. I shut my eyes.
I'm still around. I'm still alive. I'm still the same person.
And tomorrow I'll figure out what to do next.