Page 43 of Returned Mail

I shift the box balanced against my hip and try a third time. The key catches, resists a little, but then finally turns. The lock gives, and the door opens.

I stand there for a second. I take a deep breath, and then I step inside. For the first time in eight months, I walk into a home that has never belonged to Sebastian. The thought hits harder than I expect. I set the box down, turn the key to close the door behind me until the latch clicks.

And something in my chest loosens. Not completely. I don't think healing works like that. But enough for now.

My suitcase wheels thump against the hardwood as I drag them farther inside. The loft is empty. Quiet. There's a faint smell of fresh paint and lemon cleaner in the air, the same artificial citrus scent from the leasing office.

Apparently that's the official smell of new beginnings.

“Okay, we got this,” I whisper to myself, and I can hear how my voice echoes slightly.

Then I see the window.

The photos didn't do it justice. It stretches almost from floor to ceiling. You can see the city in one direction, the freeway cutting through the distance, and the trees beyond it. The afternoon light spills across the floor as I walk toward it. For a while, I just stand there. Admiring it all.

I'm twenty-six. I’m old enough to know starting over isn't romantic, but I’m also young enough to hope it is.

Signing a two-year sublease still feels slightly insane. My mother thinks I'm having a crisis. Lyann calls it character development. I don't know what it is yet. A reinvention, an escape, a transition? Maybe none of those, or maybe all of them.

I look out at the city and see all the cars moving far below. People going somewhere, or coming from somewhere. Living lives I know nothing about. My shoulders loosen another inch.

“Okay, we got this,” I say again.

This time, I almost believe myself.

I head toward the kitchen to drop my purse, and that's when I see some letters on the counter. There are eight envelopes neatly stacked and held together with a rubber band. I stop for half a second. I assume they're mine. Maybe when I changed my address, they started forwarding my mail here. Then I see the name.

MONICA HARRIS

The recipient is the same on every envelope. There are different postmarks, and the dates span several weeks. I set my purse down to take a better look at them. The leasing agent mentioned something about the mail. Anything for previous occupants should be set aside. Don't forward it independently. That’s easy. I pick up the stack. The envelopes are handwritten, so they are not junk mail.

Definitely not bills. They are letters. Actual letters.

I turn the first one over.

George Hale

I read the name once. Then again. I have no idea who he is. But I can see his handwriting is neat, a little bit controlled. The kind that looks like someone took their time writing these.

That is all I know.

I remind myself of that immediately. I don't know these people. I don't know why George Hale is writing Monica Harris. I don't know why eight letters are sitting in an empty loft. And I definitely don't need to invent a story in my mind about it.

“Nope.” I place the stack back on the counter. “Not my business.”

The loft echoes my voice back at me. Not my business.

Good. We agree. I slide the letters into a kitchen drawer for safekeeping. Then I start unpacking.

By nine that night, I have unpacked exactly enough to create the illusion of progress.

My bed is made, and most of my clothes are put away. Which means the bedroom is basically done. The kitchen is halfway functional, which is enough for now. The rest of the loft looks like cardboard boxes reproduced themselves while I wasn't watching.

I stand in the kitchen holding a garlic press I don't remember buying. I'm not entirely sure I've ever pressed garlic. I put it in a drawer anyway. Everything should have a place. Plates. Cups. Utensils. Me, eventually.

My phone buzzes against the counter.

Lyann: You alive?