The Letter
One rainy night, Elliot found a letter in the archive—unsigned, unsent. It was dated twenty years ago. The envelope was yellowed with age, the ink barely legible, but the words hit like thunder:
"I am scared that if I get better, I'll lose who I am. But I'm more scared that this is all I'll ever be."
He read it again. And again. It could have been from anyone. It could have been from him.
He didn't know why, but he took it. Slipped it into his coat pocket and held onto it like a lifeline. The words followed him home, echoed in his apartment, crawled under his skin.
He brought it to Dr. Lennox the next session and placed it on the table.
"Can you read this out loud?" he asked.
She did. Her voice was steady, warm.
When she finished, she looked up.
"Does it help to hear it out loud?" she asked.
Elliot swallowed. Nodded. Something shifted behind his eyes, a flinch, a softening.
"Do you think they ever sent it?" he asked.
"Maybe not. But they wrote it. That counts."
He thought about that all the way home.