Empty Boxes
613 Words
Clara sat on her couch, the letter trembling in her hands.
Her apartment was silent. It wasn't peaceful. It was empty. Tears slipped down her cheeks before she realized they had started.
All day, the world had felt wrong.
The constant buzz of her phone. Notifications piling up, demanding her attention. Endless distractions waiting just a screen away.
It had always been enough before.
Now it felt… hollow.
Because none of it was him.
From the moment she woke up back here, she had wanted to go to him.
The memories hadn’t come back slowly. They had hit all at once.
The box's arrival, with the ring inside. The moment she slipped it on without thinking and then..
She had woken up in his bed, belonging there without even knowing how.
Her chest tightened with the loss.
She had opened the box that morning in her kitchen, barely breathing as she found the folded newspaper clipping inside.
His advertisement.
Wanted: a wife.
Her first thought was of him. She had wanted to show him. Laugh about it together.
The same way she wanted to tell him everything she had learned. The documentary on the town. The moment his name and Noah’s appeared on that death list.
Her stomach twisted, remembering. The urge to warn him was so strong. Seven days. Seven days until they were dead.
Her gaze dropped to the letter again. Her dinner sat untouched on the table, cooling into something unrecognizable. She hadn’t even taken a bite. She hadn’t been able to. Because this letter felt more real to her in that moment than all of her life leading up to it.
She unfolded the letter again, slower this time. His handwriting. Her fingers traced the uneven places, like he had taken his time with it. The little ink blots showed he paused, as if he had meant every word.
His words weren't clever; he didn't try to impress her with poetry or turns of phrases.
He was offering her everything he had. His land. His home. A place beside him.
Her throat tightened. No man had ever offered so much just for the chance to be with her.
Clara pressed the letter to her chest, her breath catching as something inside her gave way.
He had felt like a dream this morning. The letter proved he wasn’t a fantasy. He was real.
And she had left him there.
“I have to go back,” she whispered. The words settled something in her.
And she moved. And she moved fast.
Down the hall, tearing through her room, pulling at blankets, searching, hoping she had only dropped it in a panic when she came back.
“Come on, please be here…”
Her heart pounded.
Then...
A glint beneath the bed.
She dropped to her knees, reaching for it.
The ring.
Warm against her fingers. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“I can go back,” she said again, softer this time.
Sitting back on her fluffy bedside rug, her hand lifted to her lips, pressing a kiss to it.
She lifted the ring, hovering it above her finger… and stopped.
“No.”
The word came sharply in the room, surrounded by all the conveniences of modern life.
She shook her head once, soothing herself.
“No…" Her mind was racing as she warred with herself inside
"I should write back first.”
Clara stood and walked back to the living room, slower now, more certain.
She pulled the paper toward her, hands steadier this time. Picking up the pen, she began.
Dear Mr. Walker,
I think we were always supposed to meet…
- Writer
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