Ghost 0029

You sat at the table, rereading the third version of the letter. The words fell slowly, unevenly, onto the paper—you wanted him to feel how much you missed him, how you thought about him, how you waited for his return. This was your boyfriend, he was serving far away, and letters were the only thing that connected you. You rewrote the address, sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the mailbox.

Two weeks later, you found a reply in your mail. You opened it with a smile and froze. The signature was different. Not his name. The address was incorrect—you'd misspelled the unit number.

“I’m not the one you wrote to,” the letter began. “But I read it because it was open. I don’t know who it was meant for, but I know it’s very beautiful. You write about the garden, about his hands, about waiting. It’s painful to read, because I’m not him. But if you want, when I return, I’ll read it to you aloud. Just like you wanted. Your letter is the best I’ve received in years. It’s just a shame it wasn’t for me.”

You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. You reread his reply several times and realized your voice was shaking when you spoke it out loud. You didn't correct the mistake. You wrote to him again, and again, and again. You corresponded for a whole month until he said he'd be in town soon.

Two months later, you stood at the station, clutching your bag, watching the people exiting the train. You recognized him immediately—he was walking slowly, but straight toward you. A corner of an envelope was sticking out of his jacket pocket, and you recognized it: the one with your letter.

He stopped in front of you, pulled out an envelope, a little crumpled, read to holes, and handed it to you.

"I brought it back," he said, and there was such tenderness in his voice that it took your breath away. "Maybe you'll write mine now?"

You took the envelope, feeling the paper still hold his warmth. You looked at him, at this stranger who had become the closest person to you over two months of letters, and realized that no letter could convey what you were feeling right now.

“I’ve already started,” you answered, and he