Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Cole
I nearly miss her letter in the watery morning light. It's tucked into the corner of the mailbox, addressed simply to "Friend" in handwriting that makes my heart stutter. I'd know that elegant script anywhere. A decade hasn't changed the way Rebecca shapes her letters, each one precise and graceful, like she's crafting art instead of words.
For a moment, I stand there in the cold, the envelope trembling slightly in my gloved hands. She wrote back. I hadn't let myself believe she would, had spent the last two days convincing myself the whole anonymous letter idea was misguided at best, cowardly at worst.
The farm can wait. I take the letter to Novel Sips, the combination coffee shop and bookstore across the street from Paper Trails. It's early enough that the morning rush hasn't started, and I claim a corner table where I can see the street through frost-etched windows.
My hands aren't quite steady as I open the envelope. The paper inside matches what I used. Of course it does. Rebecca always did pay attention to details like that.
Dear Friend,
Your letter surprised me. Not just because it was unexpected, but because it made me realize how rarely we talk about regret. Real regret, I mean. The kind that stays with you, that changes how you move through the world.
I have to pause, take a breath. Her words hit too close to home, arrow-precise. The barista brings my coffee, but I barely notice her presence.
Sometimes the weight of old memories catches us off guard, doesn't it? Like running into a song you used to love but now can't bear to hear.
"Oh, Becca," I whisper, too softly for anyone to hear. She's talking about seeing me at the diner, I know she is. But there's something universal in the way she phrases it, something that makes my chest ache with recognition.
I read the letter three more times before pulling out the leather-bound journal I carry everywhere. The pages are filled with false starts of my novel, but I flip to a fresh sheet, needing to get the words down while they're burning in my chest.
Dear Rebecca,
I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching the sun rise over Main Street, trying to find the right words. Your letter made me think about music, about songs we can't bear to hear, memories we can't bear to touch. But what happens to those songs, those memories, when we finally find the courage to face them?
Maybe that's what I'm trying to do by writing to you. Finding courage. Or maybe I'm still being a coward, hiding behind anonymous letters instead of speaking face to face.
I pause, tapping my pen against the page. How honest can I be without revealing myself? Where's the line between opening up and giving myself away?
You mentioned the weight of old memories. I carry those too. Sometimes I think we all walk around with invisible anchors, dragging the past behind us like shadows. But your letter made me wonder if maybe those anchors also keep us connected to who we used to be. To the people we were before regret changed us.
The night I saw you at the diner, you seemed guarded. Like you'd built walls to keep the past where it belongs. I understand that. Walls are safer than vulnerability. But there was something in your letter that made me hope maybe some walls are meant to come down.
I know I'm just a stranger with presumptuous thoughts about memories and music. But somehow, writing to you feels like remembering how to speak a language I'd forgotten I knew.
Thank you for writing back. For being willing to talk about the hard things, the real things. I'd like to keep writing, if you're willing. No pressure, no expectations. Just words on paper, reaching across the space between strangers.
Your friend
I read it over, wondering if I've said too much or not enough. The coffee shop is filling up now, the morning regulars claiming their usual tables. Through the window, I can see people heading into Paper Trails, probably picking up Valentine's cards or placing orders for the upcoming holiday.
Rebecca will be in there, arranging displays and helping customers find the perfect way to say "I love you." Meanwhile, I'm sitting here trying to find the perfect way to say "I'm sorry" without actually saying who I am.
I copy the letter onto proper stationery when I get back to the farm, taking extra care with each word. The irony isn't lost on me. I’m using paper from Rebecca's own shop to write these anonymous letters. But maybe that's fitting. Maybe everything about this is both wrong and right, like a familiar song played in a different key.
That evening, I slip the letter into the brass mailbox, lingering just a moment to watch the snow fall on Main Street. A warm glow spills from Paper Trails' windows, and through the glass, I catch a glimpse of Rebecca helping an elderly couple choose between two valentine cards. She's smiling, animated, gesturing as she talks.
This is wrong, this secret correspondence. I should walk in there right now, should tell her face to face how sorry I am, how much I regret that last letter I sent her all those years ago.
Instead, I turn up my collar against the cold and walk away, leaving my words in her mailbox like pieces of a truth I'm not brave enough to speak aloud.
The hardware store's bell chimes as I push through the door, snow melting off my work boots onto the welcome mat. I must look like something the cat dragged in. I’m covered in mud from wrestling with fence posts all morning, my work gloves are stuffed in my back pocket, and I’m pretty sure I’m still wearing sawdust like a second coat.
"Cole Bennett." Jim Carter's voice booms from behind the counter. "Need more fence supplies already?"
"Hardware this time." I hold up my broken hammer for evidence. "Cracked the handle on a particularly stubborn post."
I'm halfway down the tools aisle when I hear the bell chime again, followed by a familiar voice that stops me in my tracks.
"Morning, Jim. Did that order of rock salt come in? The steps at Paper Trails are turning into an ice rink."
Rebecca. I resist the urge to duck behind the shelving unit, reminding myself that I'm a grown man who can handle running into someone at the store. Even if that someone read my anonymous letter. Even if seeing her makes my chest tight with all the things I can't say.
She appears at the end of the aisle before I can make my escape, a basket hooked over one arm. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, dark curls escaping from her knit hat. For a moment, we just stare at each other like startled deer.
"Oh," she says softly. "I didn't..."
"Hardware emergency," I explain, holding up the broken hammer like some kind of shield. "Fence repair."
"Right." She shifts her weight, adjusting her basket. "The farm."
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, filling the awkward silence. A decade ago, I could talk to her about anything. Now I can't even manage small talk about home repairs.
"How's the shop?" I try, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
"Good." She tucks a curl behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it hurts. "Busy, with Valentine's Day coming up."
I think of the letter waiting in her mailbox, the words I wrote about walls and vulnerability. The irony of our stilted conversation isn't lost on me.
"I should..." She gestures vaguely toward another aisle.
"Rebecca." Her name slips out before I can stop it. She pauses and shoots me a familiar look. "It’s good to see you."
She draws a careful breath. "You too, Cole."
She says my name so polite, distant, like I'm any other customer who might wander into her shop. It makes me realize how far we have to go. How many walls I'll have to scale before she'll trust me again.
"The rock salt's by the register," I offer, because it's easier than saying what I really want to. "Jim put it out this morning."
"Thanks." She manages a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. As she turns to go, I notice she's wearing the scarf I gave her our last Christmas together. I remember the deep blue with silver threads woven through it. She probably doesn't even remember where it came from anymore.
I watch her walk away, remembering how I wrote about invisible anchors dragging behind us. Right now, standing in the general store with mud on my boots and regret in my throat, those anchors feel more like chains.
Jim rings up my hammer, talking about the forecast for more snow, but I barely hear him. Through the front windows, I can see Rebecca loading rock salt into her car, her movements quick and efficient against the cold.
"You know," Jim says, handing me my change, "Marie always said you two would find your way back."
I turn to him, surprised. "My grandmother said that?"
He nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Right up until the end. Said some things just need time to come full circle."
The weight of his words follows me out into the snow, mingles with the memory of Rebecca's careful smile, her polite distance. If Grandma was right about second chances, she forgot to mention how much work they take.