There was a letter waiting at the desk when the woman walked in.
She hadn’t written it. She was certain of this — she hadn’t written anyone in six years, not since the thing that happened that she didn’t talk about. But there it was. Sealed with plain wax. Her name on the front in her own handwriting.
“That came yesterday,” said the keeper, setting a cup down on the bar. “We don’t get much post.”
The woman turned the letter over in her hands. The wax was still warm.
“I didn’t send this,” she said.
“No,” said the keeper.
“Did someone—”
“No.”
The woman set the letter on the bar. She picked up the tea instead. She sat by the fire for a long time, watching the sealed wax slowly cool — not reading it, not opening it. Just sitting with it nearby. The way you sit near something you’re not ready for.
When she finally left — three days later, after the longest sleep she’d had in years — she took the letter with her. The keeper noticed she held it the way you hold something that has been waiting a long time to be carried.
The wax seal was still unbroken.