A letter lost in the rain can still find its way, if someone remembers where it was meant to go.

  The envelope had my name on it—Julian Hart, in faded blue ink—but I didn’t remember writing it, or receiving it.

  It had been left on the step of my brownstone apartment, unsealed. The paper was soft, water-warped, as if it had rained inside the envelope instead of out. No address. No return. Just my name, and something weightless inside.

  I should’ve left it alone. Tossed it with the coupons and real estate flyers.

  Instead, I opened it.

  The moment I unfolded the page inside, the city vanished.

  I stood in a clearing surrounded by tall white lilies, their heads bowed gently as if listening to something buried deep in the soil. Above me, the sky was milk-glass gray, with low clouds that didn’t move. There was no wind. No sound, save the distant hush of unseen water.

  Ahead of me stood a greenhouse—old, iron-framed, with panes that fogged from the inside. Moss climbed up the walls, and the door was just slightly ajar. Not welcoming. Not warning. Just… waiting.

  I didn’t remember walking, but I reached it all the same.

  Inside, it was warm.

  The light was soft and green-gold, filtering through the overgrown vines that spilled from every shelf and rafter. Glass orbs dangled from the ceiling, glowing faintly like old memories. Each held a single lily suspended in water.

  At the far end of the room, someone stood beside a table cluttered with books, dried flowers, and small vials of ink. He was arranging stems—delicate, slow—like he was translating something only the petals could speak.

  He looked up when I stepped inside.

  And smiled. Just a little. Enough.

  “Sorry,” I said, though I didn’t know what for.

  He shook his head. “You’re not lost.”

  His voice was gentle, low and rough around the edges like he didn’t use it often. He wore a dark green sweater that looked older than him, sleeves pushed to the elbows, cuffs frayed. His hair was soft brown, curling slightly over his ears. His face was thin, with tired eyes that still watched like they wanted to believe something.

  He gestured toward a nearby stool.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, “but I think something was.”

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  I sat.

  The air smelled like damp earth and citrus. A kettle I hadn’t noticed before hissed gently on a small stove in the corner. He poured us both cups—something herbal, unfamiliar—and slid one toward me without asking.

  “What is this place?” I asked, fingers warming against the porcelain.

  He looked around like he needed reminding. “A room for things that were supposed to be said.”

  I blinked. “Like a confession?”

  “No,” he said. “Like a letter that never reached its address.”

  I looked down at my cup.

  “I got one,” I said. “A letter. With my name on it.”

  He nodded. “You opened it. That’s why you’re here.”

  We drank quietly.

  The sound of the greenhouse grew clearer with stillness—the slow drip of condensation, the whisper of leaves, the occasional creak of the iron frame shifting like old bones stretching.

  “I think I’ve been here before,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. But I saw the way his hands stilled.

  “Did I know you?” I asked.

  He hesitated. Then gestured to the table.

  There, tucked between two pressed lilies, was another envelope. Weathered. Familiar. My name again. My handwriting.

  He slid it toward me.

  “You wrote it,” he said. “A long time ago. But you asked to forget.”

  I picked it up. My fingers trembled slightly. The seal had already been broken.

  Inside: a single phrase, barely legible.

  “If you find this, it means I wasn’t ready then. But I hope you still are.”

  I looked at him.

  He held my gaze with something quiet and wide and aching.

  “I don’t remember writing that,” I whispered.

  “I do,” he said.

  “And who were you to me?”

  His answer came slowly, like a leaf falling through still water.

  “Someone who didn’t ask for more. But hoped.”

  I closed my eyes.

  A warmth spread through my chest—faint, not painful, like a song I once loved but haven’t heard since I was seventeen. The memory wasn’t clear. It didn’t need to be. The feeling was enough.

  “Your name,” I said softly.

  He smiled. “Nathan.”

  It was familiar. Not loud, but rooted.

  “I think I forgot too much,” I said.

  “You remembered enough to come back.”

  The lilies in the orbs above us pulsed faintly. The greenhouse dimmed, subtly. The moment was closing.

  I stood.

  So did he.

  “Will I remember you when I leave?”

  “Not everything,” Nathan said. “But maybe the ache will feel kinder.”

  He stepped forward, took my hand.

  His touch was real. Cool, soft, steady.

  “You don’t have to stay,” he said. “But you don’t have to forget, either.”

  I nodded. “If I wrote another letter… would you find it?”

  He smiled, and for the first time, it reached all the way to his eyes.

  “I always do.”

  The lilies bowed as I left the greenhouse.

  When I blinked again, I was back on the apartment step.

  The letter was gone.

  But in my hand: a single lily, pressed between the pages of a book I hadn’t opened in years.

  And in my chest: a promise.