The man crouched and gathered the papers scattered across the sidewalk. The high school kid he had collided with was already on his feet.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
The kid brushed off one hand and took off running again. The man stacked his papers back together. A folded white sheet was mixed in with the others. He scooped it up without looking and shoved everything into his bag.
Back at the office, he spread the papers across his desk and found the folded sheet. It wasn’t a work document. He opened it.
Sorry for giving you a letter out of nowhere.
He kept reading.
I wanted to talk to you more after the recital.
He sat down.
I thought you were amazing when you played Mélancolie.
And your mom’s red ribbon looked really good on you.
There was more.
I always think I’ll talk to you the next time I see you, but then I don’t, and more time just passes.
At the bottom:
Next time I see you, I want to talk.
There was no name, and the back was blank. He thought of the teenager he had just run into.
It must have gotten mixed in with his papers when they fell. He started to crumple it, then stopped. He set it beside his keyboard.
He worked for a while. Before leaving, he looked at it again. He picked it up to throw it away. Instead, he put it in his bag.
At home, he ate dinner and left the bag beside his chair while the television played. Halfway through a show, he remembered the letter. He took it out and read it again.
This time he went slowly over the last two lines.
I always think I’ll talk to you the next time I see you, but then I don’t, and more time just passes.
Next time I see you, I want to talk.
He laid the paper across his knee. It was probably the boy’s. The kid had hit the ground, gotten right back up, and run off somewhere. The kid had been running somewhere with that letter in his pocket.
The man stood. From a shelf in the bedroom, he took down an old box. Inside was a stack of letters. He picked up the one on top.
Last year’s date was written on it. He unfolded the paper.
Happy twenty-fourth birthday.
He read on.
Are you working now?
Or are you still in school?
He stopped there. He had read those lines many times before. Farther down, he had asked what kind of city she lived in now, whether the things she liked had changed. He knew none of the answers.
He did not put the letter back in the box. He left it on the desk. He still remembered the last address he had for her. He didn’t expect her to be there anymore.
Maybe next weekend he’d go and see what was there.
The next afternoon, near the end of work, an old friend called.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Almost done here.”
“Want a drink?”
“Sure.”
They met at the place they usually went. Their second round had just arrived when the man reached for his glass.
“I’m thinking of going somewhere this weekend.”
“Where?”
“Where my daughter used to live.”
His friend set down his drink.
“What brought that on?”
“You free? You could come with me.”
“I can. What are you going there for?”
The man hesitated.
“Yesterday I found a letter.”
“A letter?”
He pulled the folded page from his bag.
“I think it belongs to a high school kid.”
He handed it over.
“I read this and started thinking.”
His friend unfolded it. The man told him about the birthday letters he had written to his daughter for twelve years. He had never sent any of them. The last time he saw her, she had still been a child.
His friend listened without interrupting.