The Ending

Dear A.,

I was looking for an ending.

I write stories. Or I used to. Every one of them stops halfway — the characters freeze, the words dry up. I’ve got dozens of half-lives sitting in drawers.

I came into the shop hoping to find one I’d finished. In some other timeline. On some other shelf.

Instead I found a blank notebook and a feeling that I should start leaving notes.

I’m glad I did.

— M.

The correspondence continues. New letters appear every week, tucked between pages that smell of rain and old paper. Neither A. nor M. has suggested meeting in person. Perhaps the shop wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps it doesn’t need to.