Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Rebecca
I should feel guilty about this growing stack of letters.
The latest one arrived yesterday, tucked into the brass mailbox like a secret. I've read it four times now, sitting cross-legged on the window seat in my apartment above Paper Trails while snow drifts past the glass. There's something about the writer's words that pulls at me, makes me want to let down the careful walls I've built.
Dear Friend,
I pause, fresh paper balanced on a leather-bound book in my lap. The streetlight outside casts a warm glow through the falling snow, and somewhere across the street, I can hear the faint sounds of Novel Sips closing for the night. My fingers trace the edge of my mysterious correspondent's last letter, remembering their words about anchors and memories.
I've been thinking about what you said about invisible anchors. About the weight of the past. The truth is, I used to dream about leaving Juniper Falls. I had it all planned out. College in the city, a fresh start somewhere bigger, somewhere I could reinvent myself.
But dreams are funny things, aren't they? Sometimes they change shape while we're not looking. Sometimes the place we're trying to escape becomes the only place we can imagine calling home.
I stop writing, surprised by my own honesty. I've never told anyone this. Hazel doesn’t even know how close I came to selling the shop last year when things got tight. How some mornings I wake up wondering if I settled for safety instead of chasing something bigger.
Paper Trails wasn't my original dream. But on good days, when the afternoon light turns everything golden and I'm helping someone find the perfect way to say 'I love you' or 'I'm sorry' or 'I miss you'... On those days, it feels like maybe dreams don't have to be big to be worthwhile.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. Maybe because it's easier to be honest with a stranger. Maybe because your letters make me feel seen in a way I haven't in years.
The confession catches in my throat even as I write it. But it's true. These letters have become a kind of sanctuary, a space where I can examine the careful walls I've built without fear of them crumbling.
The other day, a little girl came into the shop with her grandmother. She spent twenty minutes picking out the perfect valentine for her first grade teacher, so serious about her choice. When she finally found it, her whole face lit up. Like she knew exactly what she wanted to say and had finally found the right words.
I keep thinking about that moment. About how some things can only be said on paper, in carefully chosen words and borrowed courage. Maybe that's why I keep writing to you. Maybe we all need someone who'll listen without judgment, someone who understands that sometimes the truest words are the hardest to say out loud.
My pen hovers over the paper. Am I really doing this? Opening up to someone I've never met? But then I think about their last letter, about walls coming down, about the strange safety of words on paper.
I used to write poetry. Bad poetry, mostly—all teenage angst and unrequited love. But there was something freeing about putting feelings into words, about trying to capture moments in ink and paper. I stopped writing after... well, after life reminded me that some dreams are better left as dreams.
But your letters make me want to try again. Not poetry. Real words about real things.
Is that strange? Feeling connected to someone whose face I've never seen, whose name I don't know? Sometimes I wonder who you are, what made you reach out that night. But mostly, I'm grateful you did.
I sign it simply "Rebecca," the way I have with all our correspondence. Outside, the snow is falling harder, wrapping Juniper Falls in quiet. Tomorrow, I'll be practical Rebecca again, running my shop and keeping my distance from complicated feelings and a certain returned farmer with too-familiar eyes.
But tonight, in this gentle silence, I let myself be the person these letters are helping me remember how to be. Someone who believes in the power of words, in the possibility of connection, in the quiet courage it takes to be honest with a stranger.
I seal the letter and pull on my boots, wrapping Cole's old scarf around my neck without letting myself think too hard about why I still wear it. The short walk to the shop's front door is peaceful, Main Street deserted except for the swirling snow.
As I slip the letter into the mailbox, I wonder if my anonymous friend feels it too, this strange mix of vulnerability and freedom, this tentative hope that we're both finding something we didn't know we needed.
Back upstairs, I curl up by the window with a cup of tea, watching snowflakes dance in the streetlight. For the first time in years, the walls I've built don't feel quite so solid, quite so necessary.
The community center buzzes with familiar voices and the scent of competing crockpots. I balance a box of raffle items against my hip while trying to navigate through the crowd, nodding hello to what feels like half of Juniper Falls. The renovation fundraiser has drawn everyone out despite the cold. Nothing brings people together quite like hot soup on a winter night.
"Rebecca!" Lila waves from where she's arranging centerpieces, each table brightened by miniature bouquets from Petals & Posies. "Those for the raffle table?"
"Just need to find it first," I say, shifting the increasingly heavy box. I've donated a selection of custom stationery sets and handbound journals, each one carefully chosen to tempt potential ticket buyers.
"Back corner by the windows," she calls out. "Next to Hazel's bookmark collection and Sarah's famous pie gift certificates."
I'm about halfway there when the box starts to slip. I adjust my grip, but my gloves are still damp from the snow outside, and I can feel the cardboard beginning to give way at the corners.
"Here, let me help." Cole's voice comes from behind me, and suddenly his hands are steadying the box before it can fall. "This looks heavy."
I freeze, caught between ingrained politeness and the urge to step away. He's close enough that I catch the scent of cold air and leather from his jacket, so familiar it makes my throat tight.
"I've got it," I say, but the box chooses that moment to tear slightly at one corner.
"Rebecca." Just my name, soft and a little exasperated. "Please let me help."
The please does it. I let him take the box, trying not to notice how easily he handles the weight that had me struggling. Or how his flannel shirt is the exact shade of blue that always brought out the warmth in his eyes.
"Raffle table?" he asks.
I nod, falling into step beside him. The crowd seems to part automatically for his broader frame, making the journey easier than my solo attempt.
"Journals?" He peers into the box as we walk. "These are beautiful."
"They're nothing special," I say automatically, then want to kick myself. Why do I always do this around him? Deflect compliments, keep my sentences short, act like we're strangers instead of two people who once knew each other's dreams by heart?
We reach the raffle table, and Cole sets the box down with careful precision. "I remember when you used to make journals like these in high school," he says quietly. "You'd spend hours getting the stitching just right."
The fact that he remembers sends an unwelcome pang through my chest. "Different lifetime," I manage.
He turns to face me, and for a moment I let myself really look at him. The years have left their mark. Tiny lines spread at the corners of his eyes, and there’s a faint scar above his left eyebrow that wasn't there before. But his expression, open and almost hopeful, is painfully familiar.
"Rebecca, I?—"
"There you are!" Hazel's voice breaks the moment. She appears at my elbow, bracelets jingling and a paisley scarf trailing behind her like a banner. "I need your artistic eye on these display cards. Oh, hello Cole."
"Ma'am." He steps back, something shuttering in his face. "I should check on my soup contribution. Wouldn't want it to burn."
I watch him walk away, his shoulders straight but tense under his flannel shirt. The memory of his hands steadying the box, gentle despite their strength, lingers like an echo.
"He's not subtle, is he?" Hazel muses, arranging raffle tickets with suspicious precision.
"I don't know what you mean."
She gives me a look over her reading glasses. "The way he watches you when you're not looking. Like a man trying to find his way home in the dark."
"Hazel." I busy myself with unpacking journals, letting my hair fall forward to hide my expression. "Don't."
"I'm just saying?—"
"Please." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "I can't. I'm not ready to analyze Cole Bennett's expressions. Or why he's here, or what he wants, or any of it."
Her hand touches my arm gently. "What about what you want, dear?"
I think about the letters waiting on my desk at home, about the way it feels to pour my heart out to a stranger while I can barely manage small talk with the man I used to love. "I need to get through this evening without any more complications. Help me arrange these displays?"
She lets me change the subject, but I feel her watching me as we set up the raffle items. Across the room, I catch glimpses of Cole ladling soup for elderly Mrs. Henderson, smiling at something she's saying. He's always been good at making people feel heard, cared for.
Until he isn't.
I focus on arranging journals and stationery sets, on writing neat display cards that detail each item's features. But part of me keeps tracking his movement through the crowd, like a compass needle that can't quite break free of magnetic north.
Later, as I'm gathering my coat to leave, I find a folded note tucked into one of the empty boxes. The writing is messy and hurried. Something scribbled with pencil on a scrap of paper. The journals really are beautiful. You always did create magic with paper and thread. - Cole
I should throw it away. Instead, I slip it into my pocket, telling myself it means nothing.