A letter showed up beneath my apartment entrance that day. It happened to be Tuesday.
A shade like cream. The paper feels heavy in my hands. There it is - my name, formed by Jayce's hand, just as I remember: clean lines, careful spacing, exactly how envelopes used to arrive when we were kids at school.
A weight shifted in my hands as I flipped it. Nowhere listed for sending back. On the outside, only a single word: Brooklyn.
Patience came first. Coffee followed after. A chair held me still. Ready meant staying put.
On came the wrapper, ripped apart right there by the front door, me in sleep clothes, strands of hair loose and wild.
A piece of paper lay there, just one. It had writing on it, done by hand. Front side filled, then the back too.
I started reading.
Brooklyn,
