"Some letters don't come from the people you expect. And some arrive just when you thought you'd stopped needing them."
---
It had been two days since the fundraiser.
The lights from the poetry reading had long been taken down, the folding chairs returned to their corners, and the leftover scones—burnt around the edges—offered to curious teenagers wandering in after school.
The shop had settled back into itself, softer now, like it had exhaled. Micah smiled more. Alia noticed he started whistling when he swept the back room. He even made a list titled "Fall Events That Won't Scare Me", with things like open mic night, soup & sonnets, and 'Alia reads my poems aloud so I don't panic'.
The world was rebuilding itself into something normal again.
So when the rain began that morning, it felt like a pause. A soft breath. A moment to stand still.
---
Alia was at the front desk when the mail came. She didn't expect much—maybe another bill for the shop's creaky plumbing or a note from Mrs. Decker about her grandson's reading group.
But in the middle of the stack was a thin envelope.
Cream-colored. Heavy. Her name in crisp serif letters.
Her New York address printed in the corner.
She froze.
She knew the logo even before she read the name:
InkHouse Publishing.
It was like finding a version of yourself you'd buried in a drawer.
Her hands shook as she turned it over. There was a second stamp:
Forwarded from: 349 Lexington Ave, Apt 6C.
Her old apartment.
And a small sticky note tucked into the seal.
> "Saw this come through last week. Figured it might still matter."
— Jordan.
Jordan.
Her ex.
The boy who made her fall in love with words—and then made her question every one of them.
She didn't open the envelope.
Not yet.
Instead, she tucked it between the pages of a poetry collection near the register, smiled at a customer, and let the rain carry her deeper into the day.
---
Later, in the attic
The letter waited on her desk like a sealed promise.
Micah was downstairs reading submissions from local writers. He had no idea something from her old life had slipped through the cracks.
She lit a candle, let the wax drip. Made tea. Rearranged books. All to delay the inevitable.
Then finally, she opened it.
> Dear Ms. Reed,
We are pleased to inform you that your manuscript, "Things I Never Said Out Loud," has been selected for final review and potential inclusion in our Fall 2025 New Voices collection.
We'd love to invite you to New York to meet the team, attend our showcase reading event, and discuss next steps toward publication.
Your manuscript moved us—deeply. It speaks of loss, survival, and rediscovery in a voice that feels both fragile and fierce.
We hope you still believe in your work as much as we do.
Alia let the letter fall into her lap.
A year ago, she would have screamed. She would've called her mother, booked a ticket, and read the whole manuscript aloud into the wind.
But now?
Now, she sat in a bookshop attic above the only man who had ever read between her silences without needing to fix them.
And she was scared.
Because this dream came with a price.
And she wasn't sure if chasing it meant leaving everything she'd started to love here—Micah, the typewriter, the salt breeze, the strange town that had turned into a home.
---
That evening
Dinner was simple. Toasted sandwiches and split pea soup Micah had burned a little but insisted was "artfully charred."
He poured her tea and leaned on the counter. "You've been quiet today."
Alia looked up, startled. "Have I?"
"You hum when you're thinking too hard," he said. "You haven't hummed once."
She forced a smile. "Just tired."
Micah didn't push. He just kissed her hair and said, "Rest tonight. Let your thoughts catch up to your heart."
But that was the problem.
They were already fighting each other.
---
That night
The letter was folded and tucked inside her journal now.
The rain still fell gently outside, the typewriter untouched.
She stood at the window, watching droplets streak across the glass, and wondered what her life would look like if she chose to go. If she stepped back into the world of publishers, panels, and pressure. Would she still write with the same honesty? Would the poems still feel like her?
Would Micah still wait?
She didn't know.
But she sat at the typewriter anyway and left him this:
> "If I have to leave to find out if I'm still me,
Will you hate me for needing to know?"
"Because I didn't expect this place to feel like a heartbeat.
And I didn't expect you to be the echo."
— A.
She left the letter on the keys and slipped under the covers.
Micah didn't stir beside her. But his hand found hers in the dark.
And just like that, she knew:
Whatever she chose…
It wouldn't be simple.