Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rebecca
" W ell, that's different," I murmur, turning the cream-colored envelope over in my hands. No return address, just my name written in careful strokes across the front. The paper is expensive. I stock the same stationery in Paper Trails. Crane & Co., 100% cotton, the kind that feels like silk under your fingertips.
I found it in the brass mailbox this morning, nestled between Mrs. Anderson's custom birth announcement order and a catalog from my favorite paper supplier. Usually, the only personal mail I get comes through the post office, not hand-delivered to the shop.
The morning sun streams through the shop windows, painting everything in soft gold. I'm alone except for the gentle tick of the typewriter clock and the hum of the heating system. This is normally my favorite part of the day. I love the quiet hour before opening when I can sort new inventory and arrange displays without interruption.
But the letter in my hands has thrown off my routine, made the familiar space feel somehow different. Which is silly. It's probably just a note from a customer, maybe someone wanting to place a special order without coming in during business hours.
Still, my hands tremble slightly as I break the seal.
The words inside knock the breath from my lungs.
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 sink into my favorite armchair, the one by the writing desk where I do custom calligraphy. The morning light catches on the crystal paperweight beside me, sending rainbow fragments dancing across the letter's surface.
Who could have written this? Someone was watching me at the diner last night, someone who saw. Who noticed...
Cole's face flashes through my mind, but I push the thought away. This isn't his handwriting, and anyway, he had his chance to apologize years ago. Besides, the tone is too intimate for a stranger, too knowing for a casual observer.
The bell above the door chimes, startling me so badly I nearly drop the letter.
"I brought tea," Hazel announces, sweeping in with her signature paisley scarf trailing behind her. She's carrying two paper cups from The Copper Kettle and wearing the knowing smile that makes her my favorite regular customer and occasional voice of reason. "Sarah mentioned you left rather abruptly last night, so I thought you might need fortification this morning."
"My hero," I say, accepting the cup of Earl Grey she extends. "Though I'm not sure tea is strong enough for the morning I'm having."
Hazel's eyes zero in on the letter with laser precision. "Oh? What's that you're holding?"
I hesitate. Part of me wants to tuck the letter away, keep it private like the bundle of Cole's old letters still hidden in my cardigan pocket. But Hazel has been my sounding board since I opened the shop, and right now, I desperately need someone else's perspective.
"Someone left me an anonymous letter," I admit, holding it out to her. "In the shop mailbox."
Hazel settles into the chair opposite mine, adjusting her scarf with one hand while taking the letter with the other. Her eyes scan the words, widening slightly. When she looks up, there's a spark of something that looks dangerously like delight in her expression.
"Oh, how fun," she says, handing the letter back. "It seems you have a secret admirer."
"It's not—" I start, but she waves off my protest.
"A mysterious stranger, moved by the sight of you to pour out their heart in a handwritten letter?" Hazel's eyes twinkle. "In all my years collecting bookmarks, I've never read a better beginning to a love story."
"This isn't a love story," I insist, though my cheeks warm. "It's probably just someone who..."
"Who what?" Hazel sips her tea, watching me over the rim of her cup. "Who happened to notice you at the diner on the very night Cole Bennett returned to town? Who just happened to write about regret and missed chances?"
"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Please, Hazel. I'm not ready to think about Cole."
Her expression softens. "Oh, sweetheart. I know. But this letter isn't about Cole at all. Maybe it's the universe giving you a gentle nudge toward something new."
I smooth the letter against my lap, studying the careful penmanship. There's something almost familiar about it, though I can't quite place why. "It feels too personal. Like whoever wrote it knows me somehow."
"In a town this size, most people know you," Hazel points out. "You've built something special here, Rebecca. People see you every day, caring for this shop, helping them find the perfect cards for their most important moments. Is it so strange that someone might want to reach out?"
I think about the writer's words about regret, about the courage it takes to face someone you've hurt. "I suppose not."
"So?" Hazel raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to write back?"
The question catches me off guard. "I hadn't even thought about it."
"Liar," she says fondly. "You're already composing the response in your head. I can see it in your eyes."
She's right, of course. Part of me still believes in the magic of handwritten letters. Part of me is already wondering what I would say to this mysterious correspondent. But another part, the careful, guarded part that's kept me safe for ten years, whispers warnings about opening myself up to strangers.
"I'll think about it," I say finally, tucking the letter into my desk drawer. "Right now, I need to finish setting up these Valentine's displays before opening."
Hazel stands, gathering her tea and her knowing smile. "Just remember, sometimes the best stories start with a single letter."
I've started this letter six times now.
The first attempt was too cautious. Thank you for your note. While I appreciate the sentiment...
The second was embarrassingly defensive. I'm not sure what you witnessed at the diner, but...
The third ended up in the vintage wastebasket under my desk, along with attempts four, five, and six.
Now I'm sitting in Paper Trails long after closing, watching snow fall past the windows while a fresh sheet of paper waits before me. I chose the cream-colored stationery that matches what my mysterious correspondent used. It feels important somehow, like responding in kind.
"This is crazy," I tell the empty shop. The clock ticks in response, each second a gentle reminder that I should be heading home instead of agonizing over a letter to someone who might never write back.
Still, I uncap my favorite fountain pen and begin to write.
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 pause, tapping the pen against my lower lip. The shop is silent except for the heating system and the soft whisper of falling snow. Through the front windows, Main Street gleams under the streetlights. Only The occasional car passes through.
I won't pretend I know why you chose to write to me. But there was something in your words that felt honest. Raw, even. And maybe that deserves honesty in return.
Yes, I left the diner quickly that night. 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.
My hand trembles slightly, and I have to stop to steady it. Am I really doing this? Opening up to a stranger about feelings I've kept locked away for so long?
But that's the thing about writing letters. There's a safety in putting words on paper, in knowing you can say things you might never speak aloud. It's why I fell in love with stationery in the first place, with the idea that something as simple as paper and ink could bridge the distance between hearts.
I keep thinking about what you said about lacking courage to speak face to face. Maybe that's why I'm writing back. Because there's courage in vulnerability too, isn't there? In admitting that we all carry around words we wish we'd said differently, choices we wish we could unmake.
I don't know if you'll write again. I'm not even sure if I want you to. But thank you for reminding me that sometimes the hardest words to say are the ones that matter most.
Sincerely,
Rebecca
I read it over twice, fighting the urge to crumple it up like all the others. It's too honest, too revealing. But maybe that's why it's right.
Before I can change my mind, I slide the letter into an envelope and address it simply to “friend.” Then I walk to the front door, my boots silent on the hardwood floors, and open the brass mailbox.
The cold air rushes in as I pull down the lid. For a moment, I stand there with the letter in my hand, snow dusting my shoulders, wondering what I'm really doing. Am I hoping for correspondence with a stranger? Or am I just desperate for connection, any connection, now that Cole's return has stirred up all these old feelings?
"Stop overthinking," I whisper, echoing words Hazel has told me a hundred times. I place the letter in the mailbox and close it firmly.
Back inside, I gather my things and lock up for the night. As I make my way upstairs to my apartment above the shop, I try not to think about who might find my letter tomorrow. Try not to hope they'll write back. Try not to wonder if this is the beginning of something unexpected.