She was looking for the car registration when she found the letter. Folded, yellowed. Her name on the envelope in his handwriting, from eight years ago. She sat down on the bedroom floor with the drawer half pulled out and read it. He had been so earnest. He had seen her so clearly, even then. Whatever had or hadn't happened between them afterward, she had been loved in this specific way by this specific person at this specific time, and the letter was the evidence. She held it for another minute, then put it carefully back, and felt lucky to have had somebody who wrote letters.
