THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Letter She Sent
The letter arrived at the prison on a Tuesday.
Miles was in his cell, sitting on his bunk, staring at the wall. He had been staring at the wall for hours. He had been staring at the wall for days. He had been staring at the wall for fifteen years.
The guard slid the envelope through the slot in the door.
“Mail.”
Miles didn’t move.
The guard waited.
“You going to read it?”
“Eventually.”
“Your loss.”
The guard walked away.
Miles picked up the envelope.
The handwriting was familiar.
Nora.
He opened it.
The letter was short.
Miles,
I’ve been thinking about what you said. About redemption. About forgiveness. About second chances.
I don’t know if I can give you any of those things. I don’t know if I can give them to myself.
But I know I can try.
I’m trying.
I visited your apartment today. The one you had before the trial. The landlord let me in.
There was a box. In your closet. Behind your shoes. Behind your coats. Behind your memories.
I opened it.
There were photographs. Of Lena. Of us. Of you. Of the life we could have had.
I took one. The one of the three of us at the beach. Do you remember? We were laughing. We were young. We were happy.
I didn’t know you had it.
I didn’t know you cared.
I didn’t know you loved her.
I know now.
I’m sorry it took me so long to understand.
I’ll visit soon.
— Nora
Miles read the letter three times.
Then he read it again.
His hands were shaking.
His eyes were wet.
He folded the letter.
He tucked it into his pocket.
He lay back on his bunk.
He stared at the ceiling.
He did not cry.
He was done crying.
He was ready to hope.