By evening, strings of unlit lanterns hang above the canal. Their paper sides stir in the breeze, pale as unopened flowers. Volunteers are testing the wires along the bridge, and every few minutes one short section glows before falling dark again. You and Iris walk without agreeing on a destination. At the narrowest part of the path, she steps closer to let a cyclist pass. Your hands brush. Neither of you moves away quickly enough to pretend not to have noticed. You ask whether she ever married. She says no. There was someone for a while, and then there was a sensible conversation, and eventually there was relief. She asks you the same question. Your answer is different in detail and uncomfortably similar in shape. We are both very good at sensible conversations, she says. You stop beside the bridge. In the water, a broken reflection of a lantern flickers between you. You tell her that the envelope in the box is not a clever explanation of anything. It is a letter written by someone who wanted to be brave without having to risk an answer. Iris says she remembers the day you left. You arrived early at the station and spent half an hour telling her practical things she already knew: where you would live, when you would call, how long the journey took. She kept waiting for one sentence that was not about transport. You could say it now. Instead, you ask whether she is hungry. She laughs, but there is kindness in it. Yes, she says. Fortunately for you, people are allowed more than one attempt.
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.