Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

I grip the side of the bag and drag it off the shelf.

Dropping it on the bed, I unzip the duffel and find another similar bag inside.

I pull out the second bag and set it on the bed next to the first.

Whether it’s a break or a sprain, Rosie will have to stay off her ankle for weeks. So I should probably take as much of her stuff as I can fit.

I unzip the second bag and find a shoe box inside.

It’s plain, with a rectangular lid that comes all the way off, printed with a brand that’s no longer in business.

Trepidation settles around me as I lift the box out of the duffel.

I should set it aside.

I should put it back up on the shelf.

It was hidden inside two bags for a reason.

It’s old.

It’s none of my business.

But there’s something about it that feels impossible to ignore.

Carefully, like the contents might be fragile, I set it on the nightstand.

“Forgive me,” I whisper. Then I lift the lid.

Paper.

Folded letters.

The entire box is filled with folded pages, tucked together, propped upright with the long edge resting on the bottom of the box.

The folded paper fills the box end to end.

Slowly, I drag my fingers across the surface, the top edges dancing under my touch.

There are dozens.

But they aren’t all the same.

The pages are different shades of white. Some lined, some not. But all folded the same in the perfect tri-fold of a proper letter.

Except the first one.

The one at the far end of the box is different.

I hesitate, then I reach for the sole envelope.

As I lift it, I turn it so the front faces me.

And nothing in the world could have prepared me for what was written there.

My mouth opens, and every molecule of air slips from my lungs.

It’s a child’s handwriting.