The envelope was smaller. The handwriting on the front, just his name—Simon—was careful and neat, the letters slightly pressed into the paper as if written by someone who had thought about each one before putting it down.
He knew the handwriting.
He sat there holding the envelope for a long time. He could not have said how long. The lamp threw its small circle of light on the desk. The house was completely silent. Outside, somewhere far away, a night bird called once and then was quiet.
He opened it.
The letter was 2 pages long.
He read it slowly.
Then he read it again.
The words were simple. She had always written simply, clearly, without decoration. That had been one of the things about her. She said what she meant.
She wrote that she was leaving, that she had waited as long as she could, that she had hoped he would come back or change his mind or at least answer her calls, but that she understood now that he was not going to.
She was not angry in the letter, or if she was, she had taken that part out. She was mostly just sad in the quiet way that is worse than anger because it has given up expecting anything different.