Every year on the same day, Clara received a love letter.

The handwriting was always the same.

The words were always different.

I saw the moon tonight and thought of you.

I hope you're still laughing at terrible jokes.

I still remember the blue dress.

She never knew who sent them.

There was never a name.

Only a date.

For seven years, the letters arrived.

Until one year, they didn't.

Clara waited.

One day.

Then a week.

Then a month.

Nothing.

Finally, she went to the old post office where every letter had been delivered.

The postman looked at her for a long moment.

"You've finally come."

He reached beneath the counter and placed a final envelope in her hands.

"This one was written seven years ago."

Her hands trembled as she opened it.

If this is the letter you're reading, then I didn't make it back.

I wanted to tell you in person.

I loved you before I knew what love was supposed to feel like.

And if you ever wonder whether I meant it

I kept writing to you because writing your name was the closest thing I had to coming home.

Clara pressed the letter against her chest.

Outside, the rain had begun to fall.

For the first time in seven years, there was no letter waiting for her tomorrow.

But she finally knew who had been writing them