Chapter 09 · 3 min 03 sec
Letters She Never Sent
The phone call that changes the quality of darkness — someone always present.
Lyrics· 270 words
[Verse 1] Every March the ninth I sit down at this desk Write to a girl who probably hates me, I confess Fifteen letters now stacked in a drawer that sticks Each one starts the same — "I hope you're well, I hope—"
[Call/Response] Why don't you send them? (Scared of what comes back) Why do you write them? (Scared of going slack) Does she know you write? (No, and maybe never will) Then why keep going? (Because love don't ask permission to stay still)
[Chorus] Letters she never sent, stacked up year by year Not looking for an answer, just refusing to disappear I'm not asking to be forgiven, I'm just asking to remain A woman who still loves her, even folded in the pain
[Verse 2] Last year I almost mailed it, stood right at the box Hand on the metal door, heart doing backflips and knots I pulled it back, not 'cause I was afraid to lose But 'cause some love needs time before it's ready to be used
[Bridge] Maybe she'll find these letters after I am gone Maybe she'll read fifteen years of a mother holding on No burning bush, no voice telling me what's right Just a pen, a page, and a woman writing through the night
[Chorus] Letters she never sent, stacked up year by year Not looking for an answer, just refusing to disappear This is my whole religion, this drawer, this desk, this pen Proof that I kept loving her again and again and again
[Outro] March the ninth comes round again I pick the pen back up — I begin
Short Story
*A story for curious minds*
There was a lighthouse keeper named Odalys who tended a light on a rocky point long after the shipping lanes had moved and the boats stopped passing close enough to need her.
The harbor authority had written to her twice suggesting she let the light go dark, since no ship needed it anymore, and twice she had written back politely declining. She kept the lamp oiled. She kept the lens polished. Every evening at the same hour, she climbed the spiral stairs and lit it, and it turned its slow patient circle out over the water exactly as it always had.
A young inspector named Rhett came out one autumn to ask, gently, why she kept doing this.
"No ship's used this light in eleven years," he said. "Doesn't it feel like shouting into an empty room?"
Odalys considered the question while she filled the lamp's reservoir, unhurried. "Maybe," she said. "But I don't light it because I think a ship is out there. I light it because I don't know for certain that one isn't. And if there's even the smallest chance some captain, lost and turned around in fog, might look up and see my light and find his way home by it — then I'd rather keep turning the lamp for eleven more years and be wrong, than let it go dark for one night and be the reason he wasn't."
"That seems like an awful lot of effort for a maybe," Rhett said.
"Love is mostly maybes," said Odalys, climbing the stairs with her oil can. "You don't get a confirmation before you keep showing up. You just keep showing up, and you let the maybe stay open as long as it needs to."
She lit the lamp that evening as she always had, and it turned its long slow circle out into the dark water, signaling toward ships that might never come, watched by no one who would ever write back to tell her it had been seen.
Years later, long after Odalys had passed the post to someone younger, a sailor blown badly off course in a storm would tell anyone who asked that he owed his life to an old light on a forgotten point that, by all reasonable accounts, should have gone dark a decade before he needed it. Nobody who heard the story was surprised. The lamp had simply been waiting, the whole time, for exactly that one chance to be right.
More From This Album
