The Letter Never Sent

Margaret had been married to Arthur for forty-one years, and she had never once doubted him. That was what made the letter so hard to understand.

It was a grey Tuesday in November, three months after the funeral. The house was too quiet now. Margaret had finally found the courage to clear out Arthur's old writing desk, the heavy oak one by the window where he had paid the bills and written his careful, looping notes for half a century. She worked slowly, folding his reading glasses into their case, sorting receipts, pressing her hand flat against the worn leather of the desktop as if she could still feel the warmth of him there.

In the bottom drawer, under a stack of yellowed tax papers, she found a small wooden box she had never seen before.