When No One's Watching

Chapter 3: The Letter That Waited

“Can you not leave your crap everywhere?” Avery snapped, arms full of crumpled paper and tangled cords.

“I’m looking for my earbuds,” Jonah muttered from under the bed.

She opened a dented box. “Well, you found memories instead.”

A small padded envelope peeked out beneath a yearbook. Her fingers paused over it. Cream-colored, fragile with time. Her name in handwriting she hadn’t seen since the funeral.

Her mother stepped in, froze mid-stride.

A beat. Then: “Don’t open that. It’s old.”

Avery blinked. “Okay.”

“Put it away.”

Avery did, sliding it into her backpack as if it were glass.

Her mother’s voice lowered as she walked off. “He always kept the wrong things.”

The box snapped shut with a thud that echoed in Avery’s chest.

Jonah peeked up. “What was that?”

“Just junk,” she said quietly.

But her fingers, still curled around the backpack’s zipper, stayed clenched longer than they needed to.

The envelope sat on her lap like it knew more than it should.

Jonah’s door creaked closed in the distance. Silence returned.

Avery whispered to no one, “It’s just paper.”

The room didn’t argue.

She didn’t move.

She traced the curve of the seal with her nail.

The paper crinkled beneath her touch—too loud in the still room.

“I don’t even know what I’m waiting for,” she muttered, tugging the corner up.

From the hallway: her mother’s cough.

Avery flinched, froze.

The letter lay still.

The clock ticked. A car passed. The quiet crawled under her skin.

Her whisper broke again, almost embarrassed: “It’s not a big deal.”

She let the flap fall.

She turned off the lamp.

Darkness returned with weight.

The envelope stayed on her lap, untouched, unmoved—like it was watching her back.

Her hand hovered, then fell to her side.

This time, she didn’t say anything at all.

The sunlight caught the edge of a crayon box.

Nine-year-old Avery tilted her head. “What should I draw?”

Her father smiled, flipping the page of his book. “Whatever feels big in here,” he said, tapping her chest. “Start here.”

He pushed a fresh notebook toward her. “You’ll do something great one day.”

“You always say that,” she mumbled, grinning.

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

She leaned forward, tracing the lined pages. “What if I mess it up?”

He tapped her pencil. “Then you turn the page.”

In the present, Avery blinked. The light was colder now. Her fingers brushed the envelope’s edge again.

Same slope. Same ink. Same man—gone.

Her breath hitched. She turned it over.

She whispered, “You really sent this.”

The seal remained unbroken, but her fingers stayed on it.

From the hallway came a thud. Distant. Ordinary.

Still, Avery didn’t move.

Instead, she placed the envelope under her pillow—just for tonight.

The clink of forks and soft chewing filled the silence. Avery nudged the envelope beside her plate.

“Found something today,” she said softly.

Her mother didn’t look up. Jonah shoved peas around his plate.

Avery cleared her throat. “Dad wrote something.”

“Stop,” her mother said quickly, her voice flat. “That’s not for now.”

Avery blinked. “I didn’t even—”

“I said no.”

Jonah hunched lower. His phone buzzed against the table. He didn’t check it.

“Why?” Avery pressed, keeping her voice even.

Her mother looked at her then, finally. Her eyes were wet—but cold. “He didn’t know how hard things would get. He didn’t have to survive it.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “We did.”

Jonah pushed his chair back. “I’ve got homework.”

He left without another word.

Avery sat still, fork in hand, appetite gone. The envelope remained untouched beside her plate.

Her mother stood slowly, gathering plates. “Some things don’t need remembering.”

Avery slid into the corner seat by the library window, backpack thudding softly against the wooden floor. Her fingers pulled out the envelope, laying it flat. The window behind her cast gold light across the table’s worn surface.

She whispered, “Okay… let’s see.”

She traced the faded ink on her name—Avery Quinn, written in the curve of a hand she hadn’t seen in years. She exhaled shakily, thumb hovering over the seal. Just a little pressure and—

Buzz. Her phone skittered across the table.

[Jonah: Can u pick me up?]

Another buzz.

[Pls?]

She stared at it, unmoving.

A moment passed.

Then another.

She slid the envelope back into her bag.

The window seat stayed empty as she disappeared down the steps. The chair creaked behind her, its echo following her through the glass doors.

The letter never opened. Just turned. Folded. And packed away again—like everything else.

The café lights flickered overhead in their nightly protest, humming low as Avery stacked chairs. The bell over the door jingled once—soft, unhurried.

“Still open?” Eli asked, his voice low like always.

She looked up. “For you? Barely.”

They sat in the corner booth, two paper cups between them, steam curling into the stillness.

Eli took a bite of a cold croissant. “These always taste better when no one’s yelling.”

Avery smiled faintly, tearing off a piece. “Leftovers have a certain wisdom.”

He didn’t reply.

She glanced at her bag, the edge of the envelope barely visible.

“I almost opened something today,” she said, voice barely audible.

Eli looked at her. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was scared it might matter.”

“You ever get something you’re afraid to want?” she asked.

Eli didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

That was all. No lecture. No questions. Just a nod.

They sat in the silence that follows understanding, the kind that doesn’t need to fill itself.

Avery lay on her side, arm bent awkwardly beneath her head, the edge of the envelope peeking out from under her pillow like a secret she wasn’t ready to tell herself. The ceiling fan clicked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: “That’s not for now.”

Then softer, almost broken: “He didn’t know how hard things would get.”

She blinked at the ceiling. Her throat tightened.

In the silence, another voice rose—barely remembered, imagined: “You were always meant for more, baby girl.”

Click. Click. Click.

She rolled over, pressing her cheek into the mattress. “Stop talking,” she whispered to no one. “Please.”

The fan didn’t listen. It just kept counting.

Avery reached out, fingertips brushing the envelope’s seal, then pulled her hand back.

She closed her eyes, breathed in shallow, and began to count.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Sleep didn’t come. But morning would. It always did.

The kettle whined quietly, but neither moved to silence it. Avery slid a piece of toast onto a plate and glanced toward the bag slouched open on the counter. The envelope’s edge peeked out like it had something to say.

Her mother wiped crumbs off the table, eyes briefly skimming the corner of the envelope.

She didn’t speak.

Avery didn’t either—until she did.

“Did you ever read his?” Her voice was soft but direct, as if they'd already been mid-conversation.

Her mother’s hand paused over the tablecloth.

“I didn’t want to,” she said, still facing the window.

“Not even once?”

“No,” she replied, sharper now. “What would’ve been the point?”

Avery nodded. Quietly. “Okay.”

The toast went uneaten. The kettle stopped whining.

Her mother turned away first, rinsing a mug that hadn’t been used.

The envelope stayed where it was, still waiting.

Some things don’t need burning to vanish.

The bus rocked gently, tires hushing against wet pavement. Avery sat in the middle row, forehead resting on the cold glass. Her backpack was open. The envelope lay in her lap—creased now at the corner from being handled too often.

Her fingers slid under the seal. A soft tearing sound threatened to break something. She froze.

Outside, the window caught her reflection.

Not her face now—but younger. Bare feet, ink-smudged hands, hair in a crooked ponytail. Her chest tightened.

The seal remained intact.

She pulled the letter back, hugged it to her chest like a secret she wasn’t ready to share—not even with herself.

The woman beside her glanced over. Said nothing.

That felt right.

The bus slowed near the light.

Avery closed her eyes, forehead still against the window.

The reflection lingered for a second longer—then disappeared in motion blur.

She didn’t open it. But she didn’t put it away either.

The espresso machine hissed. The sink clanged. Avery stood at the register, eyes unfocused, fingers drumming against the counter.

“You okay?” Marcus asked, wiping a mug.

She blinked, startled.

“You look like you’re carrying something.”

She swallowed. “I am.”

In the stockroom, fluorescent light buzzed above her. Cardboard boxes stacked like silent witnesses.

She pulled the envelope from her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed over her name—still in his handwriting.

“Just open it,” she whispered.

The paper crinkled as she started to lift the flap—

Her phone vibrated in her back pocket.

Jonah’s voice filled the room: “Are you coming home or not?”

A pause. Then: “I didn’t eat.”

She stared at the letter. The air stilled.

She slipped the envelope back into her pocket.

Took a breath.

Stepped out of the stockroom and back into the noise.

Behind her, a single fluorescent bulb flickered once, then steadied.

She didn’t open it. Not today.

Avery sat at the far end of the park bench, scarf tucked tight against the autumn breeze. The envelope rested beside her, untouched.

She whispered into the wind, “You’d probably laugh at how scared I am.”

No answer.

A gust of wind stirred the corners of the letter. She reached out instinctively, palm pressing it flat again.

The texture felt like old newsprint—thin, fragile.

“Just one sentence,” she murmured, thumb grazing the edge. “One sentence won’t kill me.”

She inhaled. Held it.

“Dad…”

But the name caught like gravel in her throat.

Leaves scraped across the pavement. Distant laughter echoed from the playground. She glanced at the envelope once more, then stood.

She tucked it carefully back into her coat.

Left the bench exactly as it was.

Behind her, the wind lifted the imprint her body had left.

But the letter?

Still sealed.

Still waiting.

Just like him.

The soft hum of her reading lamp buzzed like a fly trapped in glass.

It flickered once.

Avery didn’t flinch. She sat still, her knees drawn up, the envelope resting lightly between her fingers.

The silence returned.

She raised the envelope to the bulb, tilting it gently.

A faint outline danced behind the paper—curves of handwriting, like ghosted ink bleeding through from the other side.

Her breath caught.

“Is it a goodbye?” she whispered into the stillness.

The light blinked again. Stayed steady.

Avery blinked, too—once, slowly. Her thumb brushed the flap.

She didn't peel it. Just held it there. Between wanting to know and never wanting to hear it at all.

Her eyes slipped shut.

The envelope lowered to her lap.

The hum of the lamp faded into the hush of night.

Outside, a passing car cast moving shadows on the wall.

She didn’t open it.

But she didn’t let go.

The morning light crawled through the window, pale and cold.

Avery stood in front of the mirror, pulling on her jacket. The envelope slipped from the shelf and hit the floor with a soft pap. She picked it up.

There was a new crease now, just along the corner—evidence of how many times she’d held it, thought about it, never quite followed through.

She slipped it into her jacket pocket without hesitating.

Jonah’s voice floated from his room, “You’re up early.”

She didn’t answer.

At the door, she whispered, “Today.”

Not a promise. Not a declaration.

Just something she could say out loud.

And then she walked out into the soft chill of morning.

The letter stayed in her pocket, pressed close to her side with every step.

Still sealed.

But no longer hidden in drawers, or buried under laundry.

She didn’t open it.

But for the first time—she didn’t avoid it.