On Sunday morning, rain keeps the festival volunteers indoors. You and Iris sit on the bookshop floor between the last two boxes. The envelope addressed to her lies on an upturned crate. You tell her she does not owe the person who wrote it an answer. She says the person sitting here now is the one she would rather talk to. You open it together. The letter is painfully earnest. You have underlined words that did not need emphasis. You have promised to become interesting enough to return. Near the end, in handwriting so small it almost disappears, you have written that leaving seemed easier than finding out whether she could love you. Iris reads that sentence twice. Then she puts the paper down very carefully. I could have answered that, she says. There is no accusation in her voice, which makes it harder to hide behind regret. You tell her you thought she wanted a life that stayed still, and that you would only disappoint her by wanting to go. She laughs once, sadly. I wanted you to ask, she says. I wanted to be a person in your plans, rather than a reason you had invented for making them alone. Outside, someone runs past with a bundle of bright paper lanterns beneath a coat. The rain is easing. The weekend is almost over, and you can feel the old instinct gathering practical sentences around the thing you actually need to say. This time, you recognise it before it becomes your whole answer.
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.