Letter 51

I pieced together what I could.

June 17, 1947
Ashford Manor

To whomever is listening,

I pieced together what I could.

The letter was brittle with soot, curled at the edges like it had tried to vanish. Most of it is gone. But one page remained half intact. The ink faded and smudged, but legible. A man’s hand, I think. Steady, but rushed.

It begins, simply:

“You were right.”

And then:

“I couldn’t tell her.”

That’s where it ends. The page is torn, singed along the fold.

I stared at it for a long time, wondering if the "her" was me. If I am the one he couldn’t tell. Or if I was never meant to know anything at all.

The handwriting is my husband’s.

It has to be. I traced those lines often enough, on birthday cards and grocery lists. But the tone of this—this confession—isn’t one I recognize.

Who was he writing to, in secret, only to burn it before it was ever sent?

I held the page up to the light, hoping for more. Just one more word. A signature. A clue. But the fire did its work.

All I have now is that line, echoing louder than the rest of the house:

“You were right. I couldn’t tell her.”

Tell me what?

—Calliope.

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