The envelopes unsettled me more.
I picked up Bus Stop first.
Inside was an old train ticket, softened with age.
On the back, Thomas had written: “She finally went.”
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Went where?
Who was she?
Why had he kept the ticket?
I opened Grocery Store.
There was a receipt for two cans of tomato soup and a loaf of bread.
On the back: “She accepted the soup.”
Then came Park Bench.
A faded Polaroid showed Thomas sitting beside a man in a brown coat, both staring toward something outside the frame.
On the back: “He smiled before I left.”
I opened three more.
A child’s crayon drawing.
A coffee receipt.
A paper napkin with a phone number written on it and crossed out.
None of it made sense.
Each envelope gave me one fragment of something, but never enough to identify what it was.
