The meeting was tedious and I sprinted for the train. If I was quick I would be home before the night drew in. I hated these short days. The sharp beeping announced a train was coming into the station, still a hundred metres away. I’d missed it.
Sitting on an empty bench minutes later I started thinking about the mug of tea I would make when I got home and what I would cook. My eyes glanced on a folded sheet of blue paper near my feet. I was still thinking about what I should make for dinner when I noticed the black handwriting was unmistakably written with a fountain pen. This intrigued me. It was unusual nowadays to see handwritten letters. I tried to think of the last time I had written one. I communicate with people all the time, but either by email, phone or on Facebook.
I picked it up. The paper was heavy – good quality. The elegant writing only filled part of one side and ended with
Where was the rest of the letter? I scanned under the bench and saw nothing. I looked about me, almost guiltily. It felt so personal. Should I even be reading this? But my curiosity was piqued.
If only you had told me sooner. Did you not believe in what we could achieve and do together?
Can’t we meet?
If I don’t hear from you I’ll know the answer.
And that was it. What did it mean? Had it been delivered? Did Stephen know it was abandoned or lost on a train platform? Could it be that the person it was addressed to had never received it? Or had they thrown it away?
I turned it over again, somehow wishing I’d missed something.There was nothing but a watermark. I wanted an address. I wanted it to have another chance. I wanted them to have another chance.
The sound of the train arriving at the station broke into my thoughts. I stood up, looked at the letter one last time, then let it fall back to the floor.