Letters

"A letter?" Clara said, her voice careful. "From Lily?"

The nurse nodded, her face apologetic. "The solicitor said it was in her personal effects. They've been trying to reach Sam for months, but the address on file was old. They only just tracked you down through the hospice registry."

Sam's fingers dug into the paint tube. The metal crimped under the pressure. "What does it say?"

"I don't know. They wouldn't tell me. They just said you need to come in tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."

Tomorrow. The word was a stone dropped into still water. Sam's chest tightened. The fog was back, cold and grey, wrapping around their thoughts like wet wool.

"Sam?" Clara's hand was on Sam's arm. "You don't have to go alone. I can drive you."

Sam shook their head slowly. "I don't know if I can go at all."

"You can," Clara said. "But not tonight. Tonight you need to eat something and rest."

The nurse hesitated, then said, "I can let them know you'll be there. Is that alright?"

Sam nodded, not trusting their voice. The nurse disappeared back inside, and the door swung shut with a soft click.

Clara guided Sam away from the door, back toward the bench near the chrysanthemums. The night had settled fully now, the sky a deep indigo scattered with stars. The air was cold, and Sam's hands were shaking.

"I don't remember her writing a letter," Sam said, sitting down heavily on the bench. "She could barely hold a pen at the end."

"Maybe she wrote it before," Clara said, sitting beside Sam. "Maybe she wanted you to have something after."

Sam pulled the tube of paint from their pocket, turning it over in their hands. The label was worn, the metal scratched. "I thought I knew everything she left me. I thought the paint was all there was."

"People leave more than they know," Clara said quietly. "Even when they're gone."

Sam's throat tightened. They wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. Instead, they sat in the cold, the paint tube warm from their hand, and let the silence settle around them.

After a long moment, Clara stood. "I'm going to get us some tea. Don't go anywhere."

Sam watched her walk toward the hospice building, her figure silhouetted against the lit windows. The garden was quiet now, the blackbird silent. Sam's breath came in slow, shallow gasps.

The fog pressed in. The memory of Lily's hand, limp and cold. The machine's final beep. The silence that followed. And now a letter, waiting in some office, holding words Sam wasn't sure they could bear to read.

Sam opened the notebook. The pages were still fluttering from earlier, but now they lay flat. The words they had written were there, the memory of the rain and the laugh, but they felt distant, like a photograph of a stranger.

What if the letter said something Sam couldn't handle? What if it held the truth Sam had been avoiding? What if it was nothing at all, just a piece of paper with Lily's name, a reminder of everything Sam had lost?

The thoughts spiraled, dark and endless. Sam's hands trembled. The paint tube slipped from their fingers, landing on the gravel with a soft thud.

Sam bent down to pick it up, and the movement grounded them, just for a moment. The cold gravel under their fingers. The weight of the tube in their palm. The smell of damp earth and chrysanthemums.

Clara returned with two cups of tea, steam rising in the cold air. She handed one to Sam and sat down again.

"You're shaking," she said.

"I'm scared," Sam admitted. "I'm scared of what the letter says. I'm scared that it will break something I've just started to fix."

"It might," Clara said honestly. "But you've been breaking and fixing for a long time now. You're still here."

Sam took a sip of the tea. It was hot and sweet, and it burned going down, but it was real. The warmth spread through Sam's chest.

"I don't know what I'll do if it says something terrible," Sam said.

"You'll do what you always do," Clara said. "You'll feel it. You'll write about it. And maybe you'll talk to someone who can help."

Sam looked at the notebook in their lap. The pages were blank except for the one they had written on earlier. The memory of Lily's laugh. The rain. The tube of paint.

"I don't know if I can write about this," Sam said. "It feels too big."

"You don't have to write about it tonight," Clara said. "You just have to get through tonight."

Sam nodded. The fog was still there, but it wasn't drowning them anymore. It was just there, like the cold air, like the weight of the paint tube in their pocket.

"I'll go tomorrow," Sam said. "I'll go to the solicitor's office."

"I'll drive you," Clara said.

They sat in silence, drinking their tea, the stars wheeling overhead. The hospice lights glowed warm through the windows. The garden was still and quiet.

Sam closed their eyes. The memory of Lily was there, not just the death, but the life. The laugh. The rain. The tube of paint. And now a letter, waiting to be opened.

Tomorrow. Nine o'clock.

Sam took a deep breath, the cold air filling their lungs. The cerulean blue was in their pocket, a small, solid weight. The notebook was in their lap, a second heart.

They were still here. They were still breathing.