The festival heron has one wing that refuses to open. You hold its frame while Iris threads a fresh wire through the paper. The children who painted it supervise every move. She describes Florence while she works. You can hear how badly she wants the fellowship. When she asks about your promotion, you list its salary and title. Would you like the actual days? The wire slips from your fingers. You had forgotten that was a separate question. You tell her about the apartment you rarely see in daylight. She tells you about years of people praising her for never wanting anything that would inconvenience them. Together, you test the wing. It opens. A child cheers and throws both arms around Iris's legs. When the others move away, she catches your hand. Thank you for being happy for me. You admit you're frightened too. She squeezes your fingers, then lets them go. Across the square, Dora's shuttered shop waits. You ask whether she would like to read the letter with you.
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.