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Weekly Contest #70
It snowed heavily that year in Stowe, but nothing could distract the girl curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, twinkling white lights reflected in the window behind her and a crumpled letter clutched tightly to her chest. Dear Sarah, it started. I’m sorry. She hated the words––sorry wasn’t good enough––but that didn’t matter. Those words were all she had left of him, and a small part of her still needed them. It wasn’t the first letter she’d gotten; one had come every December for the last five years, though she’d never replied. It wa...
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