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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The envelope’s edges are crinkled and battered, like a leaf forgotten underfoot~ its seal remains tight, unbroken. Inside, the ink bleeds into hesitant rivers, words dissolving into what might have been I miss you or come home. The postmark? Just a blur now~ could’ve been spring, could’ve been some random Tuesday. That’s when it slipped out of sight, getting tangled up in someone else’s story. Now it hides in a drawer tucked away with other unused things: a ticket stub to nowhere, a key that fits no lock, and the quiet weight of all the words that never left one's throat. What is a letter but a breath trapped in paper? What is silence but the echo of a name no longer said aloud. The envelope waits. The words wait. And the hand that might have opened it is dust.
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