Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Cole
I t takes me three trips to carry everything from the truck to Paper Trails. The pre-dawn streets are silent except for the crunch of snow under my boots and the whisper of paper in my arms. Hazel meets me at the door, key in hand.
"You're sure about this?" she asks, letting me in.
"No," I admit. "But I'm doing it anyway."
We work quickly in the dark shop, pinning letters to silk ribbons that cascade from the ceiling. Each one catches the growing morning light. Rebecca's elegant script mixes with my messier hand, a decade of our story told in paper and ink. The oldest letters hang in the front window, where we first began. The recent ones create a path through the shop, leading to the reading nook where everything changed.
"The flowers go here," Hazel directs, arranging Lila's contribution of white roses and blue forget-me-nots around a leather-bound journal I spent all night filling.
I step back, taking in the transformation. Letters drift like snow in the early light, their edges softly luminous. Between them, I've hung tiny lights that make the paper glow from within. On each shelf, each display, I've left new notes. Not just apologies, but memories. The time she laughed so hard at my awful poetry she snorted hot chocolate. The way she used to fold paper cranes during study hall, lining them up on my textbook.
"One last thing," Hazel says, holding out a cream-colored envelope. "For the door."
I take it with trembling fingers, pinning it where Rebecca will find it first.
Becca,
Ten years ago, I wrote you a letter that broke both our hearts. I've spent every day since then wishing I could take it back. But maybe some letters aren't meant to be unwritten. Maybe they're meant to lead us here, to this moment, where I finally find the courage to tell you the whole truth.
Look up.
With love, always,
Cole
"She'll be here soon," Hazel warns, checking her watch. "Are you staying?"
I shake my head. "The letters will say everything better than I can."
But I don't go far. Don’t head back to the farm as planned. Instead, I find myself across the street at Novel Sips, watching through the window as the sun rises over Main Street. Maggie lets me in with a knowing look, bringing coffee I don't drink while I wait.
At exactly seven, Rebecca's car pulls up. She's wearing that blue scarf, carrying her usual morning tea. When she sees the first letter in the door, she stops. Even from here, I can see her hand shake as she reaches for it.
She reads it twice before looking up, gasping softly at the sight of letters hanging like stars in her shop window. Through the glass, I watch her unlock the door with unsteady hands.
More than anything, I want to run across the street, to be there when she reads each carefully chosen memory. But this moment isn't about me. It's about giving her the truth, all of it, and letting her decide what happens next.
So I sit in Novel Sips, cold coffee forgotten, watching Rebecca move through her transformed shop. She touches each letter like it's precious, reading some twice, three times. When she reaches the journal in the reading nook, surrounded by flowers and twinkling lights, she sinks into her favorite chair.
I've filled every page with the words I couldn't say ten years ago. The words I've been trying to find since I came home. On the last page, in careful script that took hours to get right I finally found them.
I never stopped loving you. I just forgot that love means trusting someone enough to let them choose you back.
Through the windows of both shops, I watch her press her hand to her mouth. Watch her shoulders shake. Watch her read, and read again, until the morning light fills both our worlds with gold.
When she finally looks up, her eyes find mine across the street like she's known all along I'd be waiting. Like some part of her has always known where to look for me.
She stands, gathering the journal to her chest, and walks toward the door.
My heart stops.
The bell above Novel Sips' door chimes as Rebecca enters, snowflakes melting in her dark hair. She's holding the journal, and her eyes are bright with tears.
"You filled every page," she says softly.
"Had a lot to say." My voice is rough. "Still do."
She opens to the last letter, the one I wrote after all the explanations and memories. Her hands tremble slightly as she begins to read aloud:
" Becca, " Her voice catches on the nickname. " The funny thing about writing is that sometimes we don't know what we're trying to say until the words are already on the page. I started these letters thinking I needed your forgiveness. But what I really needed was to deserve it. "
She moves closer, still reading. " Every letter you wrote back showed me glimpses of who you've become. You are strong, successful, brave in ways I never was. You built a life without me, turned your dreams into reality while I was too scared to face my mistakes. "
"Cole—" she starts, but I shake my head.
"Please. Let me hear it in your voice."
She draws a shaky breath. " I love who you are now. The woman who creates magic with paper and ink, who helps others tell their love stories while guarding her own heart. Who was brave enough to write honestly to a stranger, even after I taught you how dangerous trust can be. "
Her voice wavers but steadies as she continues. " I love you enough to accept that maybe I'm too late. That maybe some stories end with letters in a box and lessons learned too late. But if there's any chance that you could love who I am now, not just who I used to be... I'd spend every day trying to be worthy of that love ."
" With love, always, " she finishes in a whisper. " Cole ."
The morning light streams through Novel Sips' windows, turning her tears to gold. "Did you mean it?"
"Every word."
"I tried so hard not to love you anymore." She sets the journal on a nearby table, taking a step closer. "Even wrote lists of reasons why I shouldn't."
"Did they work?"
"No." Her laugh is watery. "Turns out love doesn't care much for logic."
I reach for her slowly, giving her time to pull away. When my fingers brush her cheek, we both tremble. "Becca."
"I love you too," she whispers. "The boy you were and the man you are. Even when I was angry, even when I didn't want to. You've always been the story I couldn't quite finish."
Then she's in my arms, and I'm holding her like I've dreamed of for ten years, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and feeling her heart race against mine. Her tears dampen my shirt, but I think I'm crying too.
"We'll go slow," I promise into her hair. "Do this right this time."
She nods against my chest. "One letter at a time?"
"One letter at a time."