THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Letter She Never Sent
The apartment was quiet.
Nora sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by the letters Miles had written her — fifteen years of guilt, fifteen years of grief, fifteen years of love. She had read them all. She had read them twice. She was reading them again.
She had not written back.
She had not known what to say.
But tonight, she was going to try.
She took out a pen.
She took out a blank sheet of paper.
She stared at it.
The white was blinding.
Dear Miles,
She stopped.
The words felt wrong. Stiff. Formal. Inadequate.
She crumpled the paper.
She started again.
Miles,
Better. Simpler. Truer.
I’ve been reading your letters. All of them. Every single one. I didn’t know you were carrying all of that. I didn’t know you were hurting. I didn’t know you were in love with her.
I should have known.
I should have seen.
I should have been there.
She stopped writing.
Her hand was shaking.
She took a breath.
She kept going.
I’m not writing to forgive you. I’m not writing to condemn you. I’m writing to understand you. And to help you understand me.
I was scared. I was young. I was selfish. I didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t want to hear what she had to say. I didn’t want to hear that she was struggling. I didn’t want to hear that she needed help.
I didn’t want to be responsible.
But I was responsible. I am responsible. I will always be responsible.
The words flowed now.
Fast and raw and honest.
I carry her with me every day. Her face. Her voice. Her laugh. Her pain. I carry it in my chest, in my bones, in my blood. I thought if I worked enough, if I solved enough cases, if I saved enough people, I could make up for not saving her.
I was wrong.
There is no making up. There is only moving forward. Only learning. Only growing.
I’m not there yet. But I’m trying.
She paused.
The room was dark.
The only light came from the small lamp on the table.
I visited you today. I’ll visit you again. I’ll keep visiting you. Not because I have to. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to.
You were my partner. You are my friend. You are the only one who understands what I lost.
I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you did. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.
But I know I can try.
She signed her name.
Nora
She folded the letter.
She put it in an envelope.
She addressed it to Miles Vane, Inmate #4872, State Correctional Facility.
She did not mail it.
She set it on the table, next to the stack of his letters.
She would mail it tomorrow.
Or the day after.
Or the day after that.
When she was ready.