Note from a stranger

pte

written i

d itself in amber light and copper leaves. Clara Vance held the envelope like it was a w

r lap, but her eyes fixed on the envelope. Outside, Central Park shimmered with fall's flame-yellow gingko trees lined the pathw

move. She hadn't heard

Wexley-population 6,000, four churches, and one bakery that sme

e hill overlooking Lake Harriet, wrapped in red i

e wore the same brown leather coat with patches on the elbows, was still lean and strong-ja

s breeze made her scarf flutter. "Hey, Vance," he said, smil

hand rose to her mouth like she

waited for years. He told her about his father's passing, about restoring the old house, about how he'd never fallen in love again. That caused a sl

Every year, same week. I never, ho

w?" she

adable eyes. Cedar and something older, unspoken, permeated the air. Dinner was simple-rosemary chicken and a bottle of red wine he saved from a trip they took to Bordeaux. She laughed at the cork crumbl

St

tightened, suddenly charged. Her face sof

r ear. Her lashes fluttered. He kissed her-tentativel

it dee

is hair. His lips were warm, a little rough, tasting of wine and longing. She moaned softly into him, and he

ing with quick, short breaths. He kissed her neck-slowly,

ers. "Are you positive?" Her answer wa

d off her shoulders, revealing smooth skin flushed with warmth. He kissed the ho

ng her ribs. He memorized the way her body moved beneath h

and was afraid it might never happen. Their rhythm built from soft to certain, her b

tched her eyes, the way they glistened and closed. She cupped his fa

ore than the steady rise and fall of breath and the wind of October blowing through windows. He gave her on

to him, and whispered,

forgotten red wine filled the air-a perfect snapshot of their chaotic harmony. Marla humming to herself as she flipped through a battered record collection while danc

uch with a blanket and a cup of coffee. Marla

d-calm, thoughtful, and strangely magnetic. Everyone noticed him wh

insisted on still writing inventory in ledgers by hand. With a mind sharp as a tack and a tongue sharper still, Bea saw everything. She adored Clara-reminding her o

erved the shifting moods of the shop's visitors like a seismograph. She liked Clara, was wary of Eli,

she left. Her history with Eli had been complicated and brief, but not forgettable. She'd breezed into the books

m, Julian had once planned their wedding with color-coded spreadsheets. He'd let Clara go when he re

s a little too loud at family dinners. He'd warned Eli about Clara-told him she was impulsive, too fragile. "She's a

ayed. And Eli

e only thing that made sense in the midst of everything-Marla's laughter, Bea's wisdom, Rosa's glances, Zadie's games, Julian's gho

t habit. She had told herself the first letter was a fluke-some forgotten relic left by a stranger. But she had hoped for more, the part o

ough to heal." Clara froze, heart pounding. It was as if the letter had anticipated her return. The writer once more talked about the struggle to ap

is punishment or peace. Either way, keep

The letter referenced no specific trauma, yet mirrored her own-the loneliness after her mother's death,

A cruel ploy? Or was

new enough. And Clara wasn't sure if that made her feel better or scared her more. Clara woke

scent of night permeated the room. Her skin prickled. She rushed t

sed lily, crushed s

faced-her mot