Chapter 5 – Selene Reading His Reply
The envelope was waiting in her mailbox when she returned from work. It was unremarkable to anyone else — plain, cream-colored, the program's forwarding label in the corner — but to Selene it might as well have been glowing.
Her hands shook as she pulled it free. For a moment she stood on the sidewalk, staring at it, her breath caught between ribs. The hum of traffic blurred in her ears. She tucked the letter quickly into her bag, as though afraid someone might see what she carried.
At home, she didn't open it right away. She made tea she didn't drink. She washed the two plates in her sink though they were already clean. She set her phone on silent.
The envelope sat on her desk, patient, accusing.
Finally, she sat, slid her finger beneath the flap, and opened it with a care that felt ceremonial. The paper inside was heavier than she expected. She unfolded it slowly, her eyes drawn first to the handwriting.
The letters were darker than hers, pressed firmly, as though the writer's hand had carried too much weight. Some words leaned awkwardly, a little uneven, but the steadiness gave the page a kind of gravity.
She began to read.
I don't think you're invisible. I think sometimes we get so good at hiding that the world forgets to look. But that doesn't mean no one sees. Even now, I see you.
You're not weak for writing this. Weakness is pretending we don't need anyone. What you did took more strength than most people realize.
Thank you for trusting a stranger.
Her vision blurred halfway through. She blinked furiously, swiping her sleeve across her eyes, frustrated at herself for reacting so strongly.
Invisible. Seen. Strength. Words she hadn't expected, words she hadn't believed anyone would ever write to her — least of all a stranger.
She turned the page over, almost expecting more, but it ended there. Short. Honest. Enough.
Her fingers lingered on the smudge at the bottom corner, a faint blur where his hand must have pressed against the ink. Proof of a real person, imperfect, human. Somehow that mark meant as much as the words.
Selene leaned back in her chair, the letter spread open on her lap. A photo frame on the desk caught her eye — the one she kept facedown, the picture of her and Maren when they were children, both smiling stiffly at the camera while their parents fought just out of frame.
She lifted the frame, then hesitated. Carefully, she opened the back, slipped the photograph out, and placed it in the drawer where she kept her secrets. The photo went first, then she slid the folded letter beside it.
The two touched, paper against paper — one from her past, one from a stranger in the present.
Selene sat for a long while in the quiet, rereading the letter. Her tea went cold on the desk beside her.
By the time she finally closed the drawer, her chest felt different. Not lighter, not healed, but shifted — as though a door had opened a fraction, letting in a draft of air she hadn't realized she'd been starving for.