Remembered Loves

After finishing Hollow Trail and Hidden Theft, I turned my attention to the last story for my patrons, a drama. At first I was weighing my options and looking for a story to slot any of them into. However, after some false starts, I turned to ChatGPT and asked them to generate some drama seeds. From the list, one of them caught my eye. The Letter That Never Arrived. A person receives a letter decades late, one that could have changed everything, and now must decide whether to share it with the person it was meant for.

That small seed reminded me of Letters. While that story was historical fiction, both pieces share a quiet emotional undercurrent. Each revolves around a moment that arrives disguised as nothing special. Be it an envelope in a stack of mail, a familiar chair, or a sunbeam falling across a kitchen table. Yet every so often, one of those moments carries a weight far greater than it should. Something about it makes the world tilt just slightly, as the past presses against the present.

In my latest Patron-exclusive story, I step into one of those tilting moments: the sudden intersection of memory, loss, and the quiet strength we show the world when our private lives tremble beneath the surface. This story lingers in the unspoken spaces—the pauses between breaths, the stretches of silence where emotions we believed settled long ago can rise again.

At its heart, this piece reflects on the lives we build, the people who shape us, and the echoes of choices made years before. It explores composure, vulnerability, and the delicate line between who we appear to be and who we truly are when no one is watching. Though intimate in scale, the emotional landscape spans a lifetime, touching on themes of love, resilience, and the unforeseen ways the past can reach us.

If you enjoy stories grounded in quiet drama, rich emotion, and the complexities of human connection, this one was written for you. I invite you to read the sample and sit with its quiet questions. And if the story resonates, consider becoming a patron for just $2 a month to access this piece and my entire catalogue.

Margaret’s hand trembled as she stared at her name, scrawled upon the envelope stained yellow by age. She clutched the rest of the mail to her chest as she forced her hand to stop shaking. Even now, she forced her composure to the surface. The neighbors on her street had grown used to her calm smile and steady voice. Despite the loss of her husband, she delivered casseroles after surgeries or drove friends to appointments. She refused to let others see her shaken by an old letter. The neighborhood relied on her steadiness.

With a quick glance behind her to ensure none of her neighbors witnessed her reaction, she rushed inside. After closing the door, she dropped the rest of the mail on the floor as she rushed to her kitchen desk. She had just reached her chair before her legs gave out, and she repositioned herself, pressing her lips into a severe line. After years spent perfecting her persona of composure, a simple letter proved the façade to be nothing more than an illusion. She studied the envelope while deliberately ignoring the handwritten note on the back.

She flipped the envelope back over to re-read the written names. But her gaze drifted to the postmark as she pulled it closer. Her thumb brushed the fading date as her eyes slipped shut. She reached for the letter opener with shaky fingers. She gripped the cold metal tool and counted to ten under her breath. When she finished her countdown, she plucked the tool from her desk and slipped it under the sealed flap while she stared at the fading date, June 3rd, 1972.

The opener protruded from the envelope, resembling a knife lodged inside a block of wood. She closed her eyes and worked the tool further inside. “Why was this letter delayed fifty-three years?”