At the End of the Road, Sunrise

Day 1: Getting there

As the vehicle sank into the soft ground at the end of the road, it let out one last sigh. With a backpack thrown over her shoulder and boots crunching on gravel, Lila stepped outside. At the edge of the clearing stood a small hut that had belonged to her grandmother and had been abandoned for a long time. The wood was aged but still intact.

The smell of pine and dust greeted her as she opened the door. The cupboard with cracked cups that still had a subtle hint of mint tea scent, the woven rug faded from years of sunlight, and the rocking chair by the fireplace were all exactly as she recalled.

She took out a stack of envelopes and set the satchel on the table. They were all unopened and addressed in the same handwriting.

Over the past year, Evan had sent them. She had not read any of them.

Not quite yet.

Day Two: Looking back is exhausting

Her fingertips traced more memories than surfaces as she cleaned the cabin all day. There were echoes everywhere. By the stove, her grandmother was humming. In her hands, her mother was crying. That summer, Evan stood barefoot in the doorway, carrying a pocket full of wildflowers and wearing a smile that could stop a hurricane.

They had first met when she was seventeen years old, a flurry of paint and poetry, impulsive and bright. He was a twenty-year-old mechanic who had Shakespeare in his back pocket and dirt under his nails. She had fled her parents' divorce by coming to the cabin. He was repairing a neighbor's

Fire and gravity and all-consuming light crashed like meteors.

They were each other's world for three summers. Then life stepped in, as it always does.

responsibilities to the family. disagreements over the future. She desired flight, he wanted roots.

So she took off.

Ten years later, she was exhausted and did not know where her wings had flown her. The only location that felt like it was hers was this cabin.

As twilight descended and the crickets started their nighttime symphony, she gazed at the first envelope. She started to slide her thumb under the seal, but stopped. Not quite yet.

Letter One on Day Three

On the stove, the kettle whistled. The aroma of the dried lavender and mint leaves in a jar drew her back into a state of comfort as she poured boiling water over them. She sat on the porch steps, the first letter in her lap, and took a deep breath.

The script was still legible and flowing, although the paper had a slight yellowing.

You have returned at last if you are reading this. Or perhaps not. Perhaps this letter is merely gathering dust on a shelf in a city someplace. I wanted to write it anyway.

I am not sure how to let you go. I have made an effort. I have tried, I promise. I have gone on dates. I have moved apartments. You used to talk about Spain so much that I even spent a month there.

It did not work.

I do not wish to instill guilt in you. I simply want to be truthful. Because even when we were breaking apart, you always deserved that.

The lake behind your grandmother's cabin is still a part of my dreams. Standing knee-deep in the water, throwing pebbles as if to kill time, you in that blue dress.

What did you say to me that day, do you recall? "It seems like the future is too huge to bear."

Lila, my god. I regret not carrying it for you.

She folded the letter shut with a shaking hand. Through the leaves, the stars above flickered. Her tea grew cold as she sat on the porch.

Day Four: The Lake

She recalled every turn in the overgrown trail that led down to the lake. As if they had never forgotten, her feet moved through the brambles. Suddenly, the lake materialized like a sheet of glass reflecting the open sky, silent and motionless.

The hem of her jeans was soaked with dew as she stood by the coast for a long time. She then trailed her fingers through the water while kneeling.

They had shared their first kiss here. The ghost of it, light and shaky, a kiss full of beginnings, was still there for her.

Slowly, she took out another letter and opened it.

Fall has arrived. The hue of the leaves is crazy. It seems like you would adore it.

Last week, I returned to the lake. It is not as big as I recall. Is not that amusing? In our youth, everything seems limitless. However, now...

I composed a poem while sitting on the dock. Here it is, however I am not as excellent as you:

The water remembers the form of your hands, while the wind echoes your name in tarnished tones.

I hope time is a circle rather than a line, and I wait where we used to be.

I should let go, I know. I am aware. However, certain things might not be meant to be let go.

Perhaps certain things are simply meant to be anticipated.

With trembling fingers, she folded the letter and cradled it against her chest.

Day 5: A tempest

Just after midday, there was a sudden and intense downpour of rain that shook the bones. Staying inside, she lit a fire and used the wavering light to read the next letter.

I had heard that you were currently in New York. Your artwork was spotted at a gallery by a friend. claimed it resembled you in all its wildness, quietness, and sadness.

I hope you are content.

I hope you have found someone who loves you despite the way you leave.

I wish to despise him. If he exists. However, I don't.

All I want is for you to be alright. even if I am not.

Outside, the thunder screamed like sorrow. For the first time, she started crying.

Day Six: An Observer

She discovered a little bird on the porch that morning, injured and with its wing bent at an odd angle. She put it in a box with some seed and water after carefully wrapping it in a towel.

It made her think of herself: shattered, lost, but alive.

That day, she read three consecutive letters without stopping. She had buried a piece of him in each one.

I still speak to you occasionally. I am aware that it is insane. I say things like, "Lila would have despised that bulb," or "Lila would be sketching right now," as I move around the flat.

Lila, you torment me. but in the most advantageous manner.

I worry that I will not remember your voice. My recital of one of your poems was thus captured on tape. Is that odd? I do not give a damn.

All I want is to hold onto a piece of you.

Even if it is just a murmur.

That night, she did not sleep.

Day Seven: Dawn

The bird next to her was soundly asleep in its box when she woke up before the sun rose. Gently, she carried it to the lake and sat with her legs swinging over the water on the ancient dock.

The last letter shuddered in her grasp.

The final one is this one.

I have made the decision to quit writing. Not because I no longer adore you. I do, God. I always will.

However, I am unable to continue living in the void between recollections.

I will be here if you ever return, which I hope you do. Not waiting. simply existing. the manner you instructed me to.

To see the morning, I still rise early. It seemed like the world was starting over, as you used to say.

Perhaps it is.

Always love, Evan.

Her face, her heart, and the scars she had borne for too long were all warmed when the sun broke over the horizon and spilled gold across the ocean.

She opened the box and glanced down at the bird.

"Continue," she muttered. "The time has come."

The bird fluttered once, twice, and then took off, rising clumsily but resolutely before disappearing into the trees.

She got up and walked steadily back up the trail.

She needed to compose a letter.