Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Cole
I thought coming back to Juniper Falls would be the hardest part. Turns out unpacking is worse. Every box is a minefield of memories. Grandpa's ancient fly fishing gear. Grandma's collection of porcelain birds. A lifetime of careful preservation wrapped in newsprint and good intentions.
The attic of the farmhouse is stuffy despite the January chill seeping through the windows. Dust motes dance in the beam of the work light I've set up, and the old floorboards creak under my boots with every step. I'm sorting through a box of what looks like my old high school stuff. Probably things Grandma kept when Mom moved us all into that cramped apartment in town. That’s when I find them.
Rebecca's letters.
My hands go still. The bundle is tied with a faded red ribbon, edges softened by time but still perfectly preserved. Like Grandma knew someday I'd need them. Like she understood what I was too young and stupid to see. That some things are worth keeping, even when you think you have to let them go.
I sink down onto an old cedar chest, the ribbon coming undone easily between my fingers. The first letter is dated June 2014, right after I left for basic. Rebecca's handwriting flows across the page in elegant curves, so different from my rushed scrawl.
Dear Cole,
It's only been three days but everything feels strange without you here. I keep catching myself turning to tell you something, only to remember you're gone. Is that silly? Mom says it's normal, that I'll adjust, but I don't want to adjust. I want to keep missing you because it means what we have is real...
I swear under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face. A decade later and her words still hit like a punch to the gut. I should put them away. Should focus on the task at hand. Organizing, cleaning, figuring out how to turn my grandparents' farm into something I can call home.
Instead, I read letter after letter, watching our story unfold.
The leaves are turning here, painting the mountains in fire. Remember how we used to drive up to Miller's Point to watch the sunset? I sat there yesterday, thinking about you in that desert half a world away...
Sarah Travis got engaged last week. Everyone keeps asking when we'll follow suit. I told them we're taking our time, doing things right. The truth is, I don't need a ring to know what we have is forever...
My throat tightens. We were so young, so sure of everything. I remember writing back to her, making promises I thought I could keep. Planning a future that felt as solid as these mountains, right up until the moment Dad's gambling debts caught up with us and my whole world imploded.
The final letter in the stack isn't from Rebecca. It's from me—or rather, a draft of the letter I eventually sent her. The paper is creased and stained, like I'd folded and unfolded it a hundred times before working up the courage to write the real thing.
Rebecca,
I've been trying to write this letter for weeks. You deserve better than what I can offer. My family needs me, and it wouldn't be fair to keep you waiting for a future I can't promise anymore. I'm sorry.
I can't read the rest. Don't need to. I remember every word, remember how I'd convinced myself I was doing the right thing. Being noble. Letting her go so she could find someone better, someone whose life wasn't a mess of family obligations and financial disasters.
What an absolute joke.
"Real heroic, Bennett," I mutter, gathering the letters with hands that aren't quite steady. The attic suddenly feels too small, too full of ghosts I'm not ready to face. I need air.
Moving downstairs, my eye catches on the vintage writing desk in the corner, the one Grandma used for her correspondence. Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm sitting down, pulling a sheet of cream-colored paper from the drawer. The fountain pen feels foreign in my callused hands but the ink flows smooth and dark across the page.
Dear Rebecca,
I saw you at the Copper Kettle tonight. Something in your expression made me think about regret, and how sometimes the people who hurt us never get the chance to say they're sorry. Or maybe they lack the courage to say it face to face.
I pause, studying the words. If I sign it, she'll throw it away unread. But if she doesn't know it's from me...
The idea takes shape before I can dismiss it. Rebecca always loved a mystery, used to spend hours theorizing about the plots of novels she was reading. And she loved letters more than anyone I've ever known. It's why she opened that shop, isn't it? Paper Trails. The name alone makes something ache in my chest.
I wonder how many of us carry around words we wish we'd said differently. How many of us wish we could go back and make different choices.
You don't know me, but I know what it's like to lose someone because of choices made too young, too rashly. To watch them walk away and know it was your own fault.
I just wanted you to know that sometimes the people who hurt us regret it more than they can say.
With hope,
A friend
I fold the letter, slipping it into an envelope before I can change my mind. The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea, that I should focus on rebuilding the farm and respecting Rebecca's clear desire to avoid me.
But as I step outside, letter tucked in my jacket pocket, I remember the way she looked at the diner. So different from the girl who used to write to me about sunsets and forever. I didn't just break her heart ten years ago. I broke her trust, her faith in love itself.
The streets of Juniper Falls are deserted at this hour, every shop window dark except for security lights casting weak haloes on the snow. I tell myself I'm just taking a walk to clear my head, but my feet carry me straight to Main Street, straight to the storefront of Paper Trails.
Rebecca's shop sits between the bakery and what used to be Henderson's Hardware, though the sign above that space now reads "Mountain Home Supplies." String lights twine through the barren branches of the young maple trees lining the sidewalk, their glow reflecting off the fresh snow. Through the front window, I can make out displays of Valentine's cards and what looks like a collection of vintage fountain pens arranged in a heart shape.
The letter feels heavy in my jacket pocket as I approach the brass mailbox mounted beside the door. It's an antique thing, ornate and dignified, exactly the sort of detail Rebecca would choose. A small sign above it reads "After Hours Orders & Special Requests" in elegant script.
I pull out the envelope, running my thumb over the careful writing of her name. In the dim light, I can make out the ghost of my reflection in the shop window. I see a stranger in a worn leather jacket, standing in the snow like some kind of small-town Cyrano.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter. What am I hoping to accomplish here? One anonymous letter can't make up for ten years of silence. Can't erase the look on her face when she saw me tonight, like she couldn't get away fast enough.
A car turns onto Main Street, headlights sweeping the storefronts. I step back into the shadow of the awning, feeling absurdly like a teenager about to get caught doing something forbidden. The car passes without slowing, but my heart is pounding anyway.
Some hero I turned out to be.
I should take the letter home, burn it with the rest of my bad ideas. Instead, I remember the way Rebecca used to light up when she talked about letters, real ones, handwritten and personal, not just bills and junk mail. How she believed they were little pieces of someone's soul, committed to paper.
It's different from emails or texts , she told me once. When you write a letter, you're giving someone a piece of time. A moment when you sat down and thought only of them.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip the envelope through the mail slot. It makes a soft sound as it lands inside, like a whisper or a promise or maybe just paper hitting paper.
I stand there longer than I should, snow collecting on my shoulders, wondering if this is the beginning of something or just another mistake to add to my growing collection. The rational part of my brain says I should walk away, let the past stay buried. But as I turn to leave, my eye catches on a display in the window. It’s a journal bound in deep blue leather, embossed with silver constellations.
The stars are different here , I wrote to her once, but I still look for our constellation every night.
I brush the snow from my jacket and start the walk back to the farm. Above me, through breaks in the clouds, real stars peek out. They are the same ones that watched us fall in love, fall apart, and whatever this is. Tomorrow, Rebecca will find my letter. She'll either throw it away or write back, and I'm not sure which possibility terrifies me more.