Letters

The house settled around him with the kind of hush that only came after long years and longer routines. Abe shuffled across the kitchen tile in worn slippers, still in the khaki slacks he'd fallen asleep in, one hand rubbing at the knot in his shoulder like it might finally work loose after twenty years of complaints.

The morning light had that flat, pewter tone to it, like the sky hadn’t decided whether to clear or keep brooding. He didn’t check the weather. Didn’t care. The pot on the counter still held yesterday’s brew, and that was enough. He poured it black, the way he always had, and let the steam brush against his face like a half-hearted greeting.

The letter didn’t catch his eye until he sat down.

At first, it barely registered—just another scrap of paper among many, until something about its placement tugged at him. He squinted, adjusted his glasses, and felt a prickling unease. It hadn't been there last night, had it? He couldn’t remember placing anything there. Couldn’t remember much of last night at all, now that he thought about it. A flicker of something—curiosity, maybe? Or dread—stirred beneath his ribs, tight as a fist. He felt it like a knot just below the heart, as if something unseen had leaned too close.

Plain paper. No envelope. Folded once, clean and precise, resting dead center on the kitchen table. Abe blinked at it over the rim of his mug. Reached for his glasses, tucked in the breast pocket of his flannel. Slipped them on with a muttered breath through his nose.

His name stared back at him. Just that. No address. No handwriting he recognized.

He opened it.

Abe never did like noise much. I remember how he used to sit on the porch in the evenings, not saying a word, just rocking that old chair and sipping his coffee like the rest of the world could wait. Some folks found it awkward. I found it peaceful. He made silence feel like company. Like it had weight and warmth. I don’t think he ever knew that.

He frowned. Something in the words tugged at the edge of memory, but nothing surfaced. He folded it carefully and slid it into the drawer beside the coupons, the measuring tape, and the screwdriver that never fit anything. He didn’t toss it out. Didn’t say a word. But his eyes lingered.

Margo’s coat still hung by the door. Her slippers still lined up like they were waiting. Her scent clung faintly to the throw on the couch—lavender and whatever lotion she’d always used. Abe didn’t pause. Didn’t look long. But his gaze did falter.

He poured the rest of the coffee. Sat back down. Watched the window like it might offer something new.

It didn’t.

The second letter was in his workshop.

He wasn’t looking for it. Just checking the level on the shelf he’d promised to repair months ago. The kind of task that didn’t need doing but kept the hands busy. Dust clung to everything in the soft way time settles, and the wood glue had gone thick in its bottle.

He noticed it tucked behind the old cigar box where he kept spare nails and screws. Folded the same. Same paper. Same name across the front.

He opened it.

Abe had a temper. Lord, did he. I remember one time he found out someone scratched his truck in the church parking lot. Didn’t matter it was barely a mark—he spent an hour pacing the length of his driveway, muttering like the whole world had taken a swing at him. But he never raised his voice to me. Never raised a hand, either. Just boiled under the skin like a kettle with a busted whistle. That man could carry anger like it was furniture.

He stood in place for a while, paper in hand. The workshop felt smaller than it had yesterday. The air thicker. A furrow formed above his brow.

He folded it once. Then unfolded it. Then folded it again.

The light from the window had dimmed. Or maybe it just felt that way.

He carried the letter back inside. Dropped it into the same drawer as the first.

This time, he didn’t pour more coffee. Just stood there a while, hands flat on the counter, head tilted as if trying to remember something that stayed just out of reach.

But the house stayed quiet.

Even the fridge didn’t hum.

The living room felt colder when he stepped back through it. Not a draft, not quite—just a kind of stillness that hadn’t been there before. Like something had stepped out the moment he entered.

He paused in the doorway.

Margo’s chair sat untouched. Her knitting basket where she’d left it, tucked to the side just so. A blanket half-folded across the armrest, one corner drooping toward the floor. The fireplace was clean. No wood in the hearth. Not even a trace of ash.

He moved further in.

One photo was turned slightly askew. It hadn’t been that way yesterday, had it? Abe stared at it a moment too long, a tightness forming between his shoulders. Something about it itched behind his eyes—like the room had blinked while he wasn’t looking. He reached out, straightened it.

He sat in his chair. Stared at her chair.

Then he noticed the third letter.

It rested atop the stack of yesterday's paper, folded once. A smudge on the corner, like someone had held it with work-worn fingers.

He unfolded it.

I used to watch Abe from the kitchen window, hammer in hand, muttering to himself like each board had personally offended him. He didn’t build things fast, but he built them right. That man could spend a week on a spice rack and still call it a good use of time. I remember when he made the crib for his first grandchild. Wouldn’t let anyone help. Said a thing meant to hold love shouldn’t have more than one pair of hands on it.

He stared at it longer than he meant to.

Folded it. Slid it into the drawer with the others.

Outside, a dog barked once. Then silence again.

The hallway creaked beneath his feet.

He didn’t notice it most days. The way the third board after the bathroom gave a little whine when stepped on just right. The scuff along the baseboard from where the hall table used to be. He ran his fingers along the wall as he passed.

Abe paused outside the bedroom.

He opened the door.

The bed was made. Not tightly—just the way he did it. A pair of slippers sat neatly beneath the edge. Her side of the closet slightly ajar. Her perfume on the vanity, soft floral glass. He reached out, ran a thumb along the bottle’s neck.

The fourth letter lay on her pillow.

Folded again. Creased sharp.

I once asked Abe what he feared most. He said wasting time. Not death. Not pain. Wasting time. I didn’t understand it then. Thought it meant he wanted to be busy. But no—he meant wasting it with the wrong people. The wrong regrets. He never did waste time on me. Gave it like it was bread at a table that never emptied. I hope he knew that.

He folded it. Pressed it flat.

And looked toward the door.

But didn’t move.

His brow furrowed deeper. A strange tightness wrapped his chest as he checked the corners of the room—half-expecting, half-dreading that something might be there. But there was nothing. Just the ordinary hush of a room too quiet.

He didn’t sleep.

The coffee pot stayed full. The lights stayed off. Abe moved from one room to another like he was trying to find the source of a sound no one else could hear.

When the fifth letter came, it was on the bathroom mirror.

Abe blinked. His hand froze halfway to the medicine cabinet. That familiar loop of confusion tightened in his gut—had he put it there? He couldn't recall. But the tape, the positioning—it was deliberate. It was Margo’s way. Scotch tape, just so. Like a reminder he’d forgotten how to need.

He exhaled slowly and peeled it free.

He didn’t recall taping it there. Yet, there it was—unmistakably placed with care.

Folded. Creased.

He opened it.

Abe made me laugh when I thought I couldn’t anymore. It was at the hospital. I was a wreck, shaking and crying, and he sat down beside me without a word. Just held my hand. Didn’t even know me well, but he stayed. Told me once, later, that sorrow’s the kind of thing you don’t fix, just stand beside. I don’t think he knew I fell in love with that moment. Not him. Just the moment.

He folded the letter.

The mirror remained empty.

Until he blinked.

And then it was him again.

Still standing.

And for a moment, his reflection looked uncertain. Like it had a question it hadn’t quite asked—and Abe felt it, a chill running down his spine as if some part of him knew the question was meant for him.

The next letter he found taped with scotch tape to the coffee pot. A habit of Margo when she needed him to remember to do something.

He hadn’t brewed a new pot since yesterday. But there it was—resting on the lid, folded sharp, sealed in an envelope with his name on it.

He opened it.

Abe was not a perfect man. He was not gentle in the ways people wanted, but he was kind in the ways they needed. He didn’t fix what broke, but he stayed beside it. He didn’t fill silences, but he made them safe. He didn’t say goodbye, not because he couldn’t—because he thought love should linger, not end.

He didn’t fold this one.

Didn’t put it in the drawer.

He sat at the table. Letter in hand. Eyes on the window.

And waited for the sun to break the clouds.

It didn’t.

But he waited anyway.

This time, his shoulders stayed tense.

The seventh letter arrived without warning. Not taped. Not hidden.

It lay in the middle of the hallway floor, as if it had fallen from nowhere. Folded once. No envelope.

He stooped slowly to retrieve it.

This one was shorter.

I never got to say thank you. Not properly. You told me once, when I was ready to leave her, that some kinds of love don’t burn—they smolder. That it’s not always supposed to feel like fireworks. Sometimes it’s just someone showing up again. And again. And again. You saved my marriage, Abe. And I never told you. I hope this counts.

He carried the letter back to the kitchen.

He opened the drawer.

But didn’t add the letter to the others.

He placed it on top of the counter.

And walked back down the hall.

The door at the end stood slightly ajar.

And the light behind it wasn’t daylight.

But it was warm.

His breath caught—a tight, involuntary hitch that startled even him. For the first time in days, something sharp edged beneath the numb haze: not grief, not fear, but the tremble of both. He swallowed hard and turned away, slower than before.

The eighth letter came in a way none of the others had.

It was already open. Already unfolded. Already waiting.

Propped against the windowpane above the sink, held in place by the old salt shaker he never used.

Abe frowned.

That wasn’t right. Nothing else had been left like this. And he hadn’t moved the salt shaker in years. He reached for it with slow, uncertain fingers, his breath held without meaning to.

He just leaned in. And read.

Abe passed quietly. He was in his chair, the one facing the window. The sky was overcast. His coffee had gone cold. I think he knew. He looked peaceful. Like he’d been waiting for something that finally came. We were lucky to know him. To be remembered by him. He gave us pieces of himself in a thousand small ways. I only hope, wherever he is now, that he knows we never forgot.

He pressed a palm to the glass.

The clouds outside parted, just for a breath.

And then the light came in.

Not harsh. Not sudden.

Just warm.

He whispered something no one could hear.

The ninth letter was already in his hand.

He didn’t remember picking it up.

Didn’t remember walking anywhere at all.

But there it was. Creased. Folded. Familiar.

Abe opened it.

It’s time. You always wanted to go on your own feet. So do it.

He looked to the door.

It was open now.

No porch.

No steps.

The endless void of space was all that was there.

He paused.

Then, after a long silence, he said:

“Are you there, God? It’s me. I’m Ready.”