Chapter 9 Paper Bridges
Nine ~ Paper Bridges
?? Letter – J.W. to M
M,
You asked what I miss. Took me a while to answer.
I miss the sound of gravel under my boots. Not pavement. Gravel. That crunch that makes it feel like you're somewhere quiet. Real. Maybe it's a dumb answer.
I also miss my brother.
He died five years ago. Cancer. Fast and cruel. He used to call me “Jax” even when I told him not to. Said it made me sound like a comic book vigilante.
Maybe I was trying to be one on the night I met you.
Tell me something no one knows about you.
– Jax
?? Letter – M to Jax
Jax,
I’m sorry about your brother.
He sounds like someone I would’ve liked. Anyone who gives people nicknames just to annoy them is a keeper in my book.
Okay, here’s my secret: I sing to my plants. Not well. Off-key and off-beat. But I swear they grow faster when I do
And sometimes, when I can't sleep, I bake. Not because I'm hungry, but because it makes the apartment smell like something good happened.
I haven’t told anyone that. Until now.
– M
?? Letter – Jax to M
M,
I think you just made me laugh for the first time in here.
You sing to your plants? No judgment. I talk to my bike. Her name’s Marla. She's a 1997 Honda Shadow. Scratched to hell but rides like silk.
If you baked something right now, what would it be? Describe it to me.
Make it vivid. Torture me. I miss smells almost as much as freedom.
Also, your handwriting’s starting to feel familiar. Like I’d recognize it anywhere.
– Jax
?? Letter – M to Jax
Jax,
Marla. Of course, your bike has a name. I love that.
Okay…. fresh cinnamon rolls. The kind with cream cheese icing that melts down the sides. The dough is soft, warm, and a little sweet. I eat them too hot, always. Burn my tongue every time. Worth it.
I used to bake those every Christmas morning with my mom. She’d hum carols off-key and pretend the icing was snow.
She’s gone now.
Writing that surprised me. I guess I haven’t said it out loud in a while. But I wanted you to know.
– M
?? Letter – Jax to M
M,
You and I… we keep loss close, don’t we?
Yours smells like cinnamon rolls.
Mine sounds like gravel.
Maybe that’s why I feel more human every time I read your letters.
In here, everything gets loud: voices, footsteps, doors slamming. But your words are quiet. Still. Like a fire that doesn’t flicker when the wind comes through.
Keep writing.
Please.
– Jax
?? Letter – M to Jax
Jax,
I keep wondering what happens when they let you out.
Will you go somewhere far away and forget this little thread we tied between us? I wouldn’t blame you.
But if you’re still reading my letters by then… maybe you’ll want to find me.
And if you do… I think I’d say yes.
– M