On Sunday, rain pins you inside the almost-empty shop. Iris sits opposite you on the floor. The envelope rests between the last two boxes. You tell her she owes your younger self nothing. Good. I'd rather talk to the person who came back. You open it together. There are underlined promises about becoming interesting enough to return. Near the end, in much smaller writing, you admit that leaving seemed easier than finding out whether she could love you. She reads that sentence twice. I could have answered that. You say you thought she wanted to stay here, and you would only disappoint her by wanting to leave. I wanted you to ask. You made me the reason for a decision I never got to make. You hear the festival volunteers running past with their lanterns protected under coats. The rain is easing. Soon your train will come. This time you can tell her what you hope for, or ask what she wants before you put another future into words.
A weekend in your grandmother’s bookshop. A box of unsent letters. The person you never quite said goodbye to.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.