Saturday arrived soft and bright, the kind of morning that made Maple Hollow look freshly drawn. The café moved at a gentle pace—regulars reading the paper, a couple of tourists debating scones, the bell chiming like it had all the time in the world.
Emma claimed the corner table with a stack of kraft envelopes and a pen that wrote a little darker than she meant. Hannah slid a mug beside her and didn't ask questions; she just rested a hand on Emma's shoulder for a heartbeat and went back to the counter.
On the first envelope, Emma wrote in small, careful letters: Open when the city feels too loud.
On the next: Open when you can't sleep.
Then: Open when you forget to be brave.
She paused, listening to the café's familiar sounds—the hiss of steam, the low murmur of talk, the page-turn of a newspaper—and let them sink into the ink.
By noon, the envelopes had become a small hill. Open on a rainy morning. Open on the first night I'm gone. Open when the bell feels too quiet. She sealed each with a tiny paper star and a thumbprint, as if some part of her might stay behind in the fold.
"Where should they live?" Emma asked when Hannah could finally breathe between orders.
Hannah tapped her lip, thinking. "Top shelf, blue tin. The one that used to hold tea. I'll never forget it's there."
"Good," Emma said. "It's supposed to be found."
That afternoon they baked—not because they needed more sweets, but because moving felt better than circling the same thoughts. Cinnamon rolls this time, the room filling with sugar and spice and warm air. Hannah worked like she always did—precise, unhurried. Emma cut the spirals too thick and laughed at herself, and Hannah kissed the flour on her cheek without comment.
"Add this to the For-When-It's-Hard list," Hannah said, nudging the pan toward the oven. "Bake something. Anything. The world settles when you measure."
Emma wrote it down.
When the timer pinged, they ate the first rolls too hot, breathing past the heat and grinning like kids. It felt like a trick against time—the kind you're allowed to get away with when you're preparing to leave.
Near evening, they walked to the mural by the community center. The colors had softened with the season, but the center still glowed in that stubborn way Emma loved, like light refusing to give up.
"Do I get to steal a talisman?" Hannah asked, half-joking.
Emma reached into her pocket and pulled out a paper star, the last one from the roll she'd used to seal the letters. "Better—let's leave one."
They tucked it into a hairline crack in the corner where two strokes met—hidden, unless you knew to look. Hannah pressed it with the tip of her finger, then rested that finger against Emma's wrist like sealing both at once.
"Proof of place," Hannah said.
"Proof of us," Emma answered.
They stood a while, not thinking about trains or docks or galleries—just the way the paint caught the fading light, the way the town hummed low and kind around them.
Back home, they packed the easy things: socks, sketchbook, pencil tin, the wrapped book Hannah had given her for the train. The brass key went in the small pocket of Emma's bag; the blue scarf lay on top like a verb meaning stay warm.
Hannah set the blue tin on the top shelf and slid the letters inside, their paper stars rustling softly. "Open one with me now?" she asked, surprised by her own voice.
Emma shook her head, smiling. "They're for later. But—" She crossed to the table and pulled a single envelope from her coat. Open when the train pulls away. "This one's for the platform."
Hannah tucked it into her pocket, close enough to touch without thinking. "I like homework," she said, trying for light. It almost worked.
They stood by the door a long moment, the little bell gleaming in the lamplight. The apartment felt held together by simple things—two mugs, a scarf, a list on the fridge that added up to courage.
"Tomorrow we do nothing big," Hannah said. "Walk. Soup. Early movie if the projector at the hall behaves."
"And maybe I write one more letter," Emma added.
"And maybe I hide one in the flour bin," Hannah said, deadpan.
Emma grinned. "You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
They laughed, and the sound curled into the room like something you could put on a shelf and keep.
Before bed, Emma touched the bell without ringing it, just to feel the cool curve of it under her finger. "Open when," she whispered, thinking of all the ways love knows how to wait.
"Open always," Hannah said, answering a thought she couldn't hear but somehow understood.
The night settled. The letters waited in their tin. The scarf lay ready on the chair. And the week, stubborn and short, kept moving—carrying them toward a morning that would ask for everything and promise, quietly, to give it back.