I didn’t open it in that office. I carried it, unread, to the small park across the street from my apartment, and sat down on a bench before I let myself break the seal.
It wasn’t a letter. It was a list, written in the same unhurried handwriting as everything else:
Botanical Garden
Farmers’ Market
Ice cream from Oakridge Street
Feed the ducks, even if they ignore you
At the very bottom, one last line: Ordinary Tuesdays are where life quietly hides.
I laughed before I even noticed I was crying, both at once, which felt about right for how the last two weeks had gone. Around me, the park carried on as if nothing had happened — because nothing had happened to it. Children chased pigeons across the grass. Someone’s golden retriever dozed in a patch of sun. An elderly couple argued cheerfully over a crossword, the way people do when arguing is just another form of company. The world hadn’t paused for any of this. Only I had.
