They tumble down the street like the dry weeds in old cowboy films, catching on lampposts and doorsteps, their whispering frantic against the stone. At first, I mistook them for refuse: greasy scraps the city had coughed up and discarded.

They’re not.

Rain has softened the envelopes, or perhaps it’s the weight of what they hold. Paper, folded and unfolded until the creases give way like brittle bone. When the wind quiets, I gather them from the pavement, lifting them gently, as though they might bruise.

I’m sorry I never said-

If you still remember-

I loved you before-

The sentences end there, erased by rain, grief, failed nerve. Words that ran out of breath before they could reach the summit.

Thus, the letters wander.

My bedside drawer is full of them now. At night, they unfold in my sleep: paper cranes learning to fly, circling above my bed, futures balanced on their wings, searching for somewhere to land.

Tonight, the wind grows still outside my window, noticing, remembering. Softly, it leans in and lets one letter go.

No address. No stamp.

Just a single, folded page, patient as a held breath.

I open it. Inside are only two figures.

Dear O.

The rest of the page is empty, as if the pen paused at the precipice of confession and could not take the step.

But I know that handwriting. The loop of that single letter - a circle, a zero. It is the shape of an absence, the numeral for nothing.

It is mine.

Outside, the wind rises again, sweeping the other letters back into the dark, scattering their unwritten grief.

Mine does not move, waiting on me.

And, for the first time -

I reach for the pen.