Lanterns hang dark above the canal. A cyclist squeezes past, and Iris steps against your shoulder. Your hands brush. Neither moves away. You ask whether she married. No, she says. There was someone; eventually they were kinder to each other apart. She asks you the same question. Your answer takes fewer words than you expected. At the bridge, she turns toward you. The day you left, you told me your address, your train times, your new phone number. I kept waiting for something I couldn't write in a diary. You remember the envelope under Dora's till. You wrote it because an unanswered letter seemed safer than an answer you couldn't bear. You could tell her that now. Instead you ask whether she's hungry. Her laugh is soft, but the disappointment reaches you. Fortunately, you are allowed another attempt. Across the water, volunteers test the festival lights. One strip catches, then another. You ask Iris to spend tomorrow evening with you, somewhere neither of you can pretend to be passing through.
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.