The archive occupies the old municipal swimming baths. Where the deep end used to be, rows of filing cabinets stand beneath a painted ceiling of clouds. Iris tells you she came here as a child and used to think librarians could control the weather. You sit at a long table with the box between you. The archivist cannot give out private addresses, but she can contact people and ask whether they would like their letters returned. You are grateful for the ordinary care of this rule. Not every unfinished story is an invitation to interfere. One elderly woman arrives before you have finished your coffee. Her envelope contains a letter to her sister, written during an argument that neither woman can now remember clearly. They made peace thirty years ago. She says she would like to keep the letter as evidence that she was once capable of such magnificent spelling mistakes. After she leaves, Iris wipes her eyes and pretends it is the dust. You tell her that you used to imagine returning to Bellweather as proof that you had succeeded elsewhere. You would arrive with a better coat, a better story, some neat explanation for why leaving had been necessary. And now? she asks. Now you are sitting in a disused swimming pool, relieved that nobody expects you to be impressive. Iris looks at you for a moment longer than the conversation requires. I never needed you to be impressive, she says. I was rather fond of you before you learned to make everything sound like a job interview. You carry the remaining letters back through town together. For once, you let a silence remain unpolished.
A weekend in your grandmother’s bookshop. A box of unsent letters. The person you never quite said goodbye to.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.