The Return Address

The package arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper that whispered of distances travelled, corners softened by rain or time or careful hands.

No return address, just my name written in loops I knew like breathing; your handwriting, unchanged after seven years of silence thick as cemetery soil.

Inside: your father's watch, still stopped at 3:17, the moment you decided I wasn't worth the morning light.

A stack of photographs, their edges yellowed like autumn leaves we never got to walk through together.

That sweater I bought you in Prague, the one you wore when you promised forever, tasted like strawberry wine and train station goodbyes.

It still smells like your perfume, with ghost notes of jasmine and regret.

At the bottom, a single envelope.

Inside, a doctor's letterhead, with dates and terms I couldn't swallow: "terminal," "arrangements," "final wishes."

You'd been gone for three weeks already.

The package sits here now, a shrine to conversations we'll never have, apologies that died in your throat, forgiveness I practice saying to empty rooms.

I finally understand why you sent it; not cruel reminder but gentle confession: you kept everything, even after you couldn't keep me.

Tonight I wear your father's watch, wind it carefully, let it tick against my wrist like the pulse you'll never feel again.

The sweater hangs in my closet now, between my winter coat and the space where your laughter used to live, where love becomes an archive of what we were too proud to save.