Loud Letters
902 Words
The alarm lying beside her bed gave a loud buzz, but she snoozed it and turned. As if something caught her attention, she turned back, staring at the two letters lying on the table beside her bed, where she had placed them before she slept.
She stared at them for a long while before reaching out. Her fingers hovered, then stopped. It felt like reopening a wound that was already healing.
She forced herself out of bed, wrapping a thin robe around her as she moved toward the kitchen. Outside, the streets were already awake with the sound of cars driven by impatient drivers hurrying to meet up with an early appointment.
With warm coffee in her palms, she leaned against the counter and tried to quiet her mind. ‘They’re just letters. Old ghosts certainly don’t come back through paper,’ she told herself.
Her phone buzzed.
“Good morning, my sunshine. How’s my favorite artist doing today?”
A smile creeps on her cheeks. Daniel’s texts were always like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Sleepy and possibly covered in paint,” she replied.
“Exactly how I like my woman,” he replied.
She laughed softly and dropped the phone. Daniel’s warmth had always been her escape.
Three years ago, when Davis vanished into thin air, her world collapsed, and her brush was her only companion until Daniel stepped in quietly. He never asked about her past, though it was obvious she was just healing when they met. He was the peace her heart needed to stay at rest.
The stack of mail was still lying on the table. Right beneath an electricity bill was a new envelope.
Her heart skipped.
The same cream envelope and still no address.
For a moment, she froze. Curiosity and fear lingered in her mind then she slowly reached for the envelope.
This time, the paper was smoother, and the ink as if it had been written recently.
Dear Annabel,
You once told me that art was more than craft for you; it was life. Now I realize you were the life I wanted to live, but left.
I see you everywhere I turn. When I run, when I sleep, in every painting, and the stars at night. I wonder if you still don’t forget to eat when you want to paint an idea in your head so badly.
I wonder if you’ve forgiven me for leaving without saying goodbye.
If I could rewrite the past, I wouldn’t walk away. I would sit on that cold studio floor beside you, holding your hands at every breaking of the day. I would tell you the truth that I was a coward, and I loved you too much to let you watch the man I have become.
It hurts, the pain of emptiness, the thought of you in another man’s arms, and the dream we would have lived.
Yours,
D
Annabel dropped the letter; she looked certain.
“D?”
It couldn’t be a coincidence. There was only one D whose absence tore her.
She walked to the studio corner, staring at the half-finished painting.
She picked up her brush and began painting again, but between the brushstrokes, her hands were trembling.
Her phone buzzed again. Daniel.
She hesitated before answering.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey beautiful,” he replied. “You sound tired. Did you even sleep?”
“Not really.”
“Any big commission coming up?”
Annabel paused, her eyes wandering to the letters. “Something like that.”
Daniel chuckled. “Don’t overwork yourself my artist. I booked dinner for us tonight. Italian, your favorite. Six o’clock?”
“Six,” she echoed.
“I love you, Bel.”
“I love you too,” she said. Though the words slipped out easily, her heart said otherwise.
After the call ended, she looked at the letters again. The soft, fragile edges and scent of lavender still linger on the paper.
She knew she should tell Daniel about the letters and the ghost it awakens within her. Daniel had always been a good listener and a shoulder she could lean on, but what would she even say?
“Hi, Daniel. I think my ex, who vanished without a word, might be writing to me from the grave.”
She laughed under her breath.
Her phone buzzed once more. It was a new email notification.
Potential Client Inquiry - The Glass House Gallery.
Her heart leaped. The Glass House Gallery was one of New York’s most prestigious galleries which once exhibited her work before everything fell apart.
She quickly clicked the message.
Dear Ms. Rhodes,
We’ve recently come across your portfolio and would like to discuss featuring your new collection in an upcoming exhibition.
Can we schedule a meeting to talk about the details?
Adrian Wells
The Glass House Gallery
Annabel read it twice, as if in disbelief. She had been waiting for this kind of opportunity, but something about it felt off. Everything seems to be happening at once, the letters and the sudden mail from The Glass House.
She breathes slowly and sets her phone aside.
Her gaze drifted back to the newest letter. The words echoed in her head, If I could rewrite the past, I wouldn’t walk away.”
She looked at her ring and muttered, “Why now?” Leaning back, she massaged her forehead gently.
- Writer
