Amara set the letter back into the box with shaking fingers.
She closed the lid carefully, like tucking a child into bed.
Amara:
(quietly)
"I know he's gone.
I'm not crazy."
Calen:
"Knowing doesn't make the missing easier."
She laughed — a soft, broken sound.
Amara:
(whispering)
"It's like…
there's a part of me that still thinks if I just wait long enough,
he'll come through that door.
Tracking mud all over the floor.
Smelling like rain and engine grease."
She wiped her face quickly.
Amara:
"Stupid."
Calen:
"No.
Human."
They stood in the quiet together, the old building breathing around them.
Amara toyed with the edge of the counter, her nails tapping out an anxious rhythm.
Amara:
"Everyone says 'move on.'
Like it's a switch you just flip."
Calen:
(soft)
"Maybe you don't move on.
Maybe you move forward.
Carrying them with you."
She stared at him, eyes red and burning.
Amara:
"But if I live again…
if I laugh again…
does that mean I loved him less?"
Calen shook his head firmly.
Calen:
"It means you loved him enough to keep living."
The rain hammered harder against the windows,
but inside, the silence felt warmer somehow.
Less empty.
Amara leaned back against the counter, exhausted from emotions she hadn't let herself name in too long.
Amara:
(whispering)
"What if I forget his voice?"
Calen thought about the soft hum of his grandmother's lullabies,
the way time sometimes blurred even the things you tried hardest to hold.
Calen:
(gently)
"Then you find it again in the way he made you feel."
She closed her eyes.
Letting the words sink deep where they were most needed.
Amara:
(soft)
"I'm so tired of being a graveyard."
Calen's voice was steady.
Calen:
"Then plant a garden."
She opened her eyes, blinking fast.
Amara:
(broken laugh)
"You talk like you know what you're doing."
Calen:
(soft smile)
"I don't.
I'm just carrying light until someone finds their way."
Amara pushed herself upright and crossed around the counter.
She stood in front of him now, close enough that Calen could see the tear tracks on her cheeks.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, folded envelope —
the newest letter.
She hesitated.
Then offered it to him.
Amara:
(whispering)
"Can you carry this one for me?"
Calen took the letter gently, cradling it like something sacred.
Calen:
(quiet)
"Of course."
Amara smiled — shaky but real — and let out a long, shuddering breath.
Amara:
"Maybe it's time to write new letters."
Calen:
"Maybe it's time to send some, too."
She laughed again, a little stronger this time.
Amara:
"Yeah.
Maybe."
The rain softened outside,
the gray giving way to the first tentative stars.
Calen slipped the letter carefully into the pocket of his jacket,
beside the place he kept the scraps of his own lost things.
Amara walked with him to the door.
She paused there, looking out into the damp night.
Amara:
(soft)
"Thank you, Lantern Boy."
Calen adjusted the strap of the lantern across his chest.
Calen:
"Thank you, Letter Keeper."
She grinned, wiping at her face with her sleeve.
Amara:
(calling after him)
"If you ever find yourself lost,
write a letter.
I'll keep it safe."
Calen:
(smiling)
"I will."
And then he was stepping into the night,
the lantern's stubborn glow bobbing ahead of him,
the road stretching endlessly under his feet.
Amara stood in the doorway long after he disappeared.
Then she turned back inside,
pulling out a clean sheet of paper.
She picked up her pen —
this time not to write to someone gone,
but to someone still waiting to be found.
To herself.