Harold slid an envelope toward me.

My name was written in Callum’s handwriting.

Mira.

For a moment, I was back in that tiny laundromat apartment, watching him write grocery lists on old envelopes because we never owned a notepad.

I opened it carefully.

Callum’s letter was not romantic, which somehow made it harder to read. He apologized for disappearing into ambition, for becoming cruel in ways he had not understood at the time. He wrote that our divorce had taught him success without kindness was only noise. He said he had followed my life from a distance, enough to know I had become a school counselor, enough to know I still helped people even when no one clapped for it.