The Letter in the Box

The sea was calm the day they buried him.

Clara stood beneath a sky the color of smoke, the wind lifting strands of her hair as if the world itself was unsure how to behave without him. The pastor said words she didn’t hear. Someone pressed a tissue into her hand. A woman she barely knew whispered something about time healing all wounds.

Time. She had no sense of it anymore.

People came. People cried. People left.

But Clara stayed.

She lingered after the last car rolled away, the soles of her shoes damp from the grass. The gravestone was simple—just his name, the dates, and a line she had chosen with trembling hands: “Forever in the tide.” He’d loved the ocean. Said it was the only place that made him feel both small and infinite.

She had thought he told her everything.

That night, the house was too quiet. Too full of echoes. She couldn’t bring herself to sleep in their bed, so she sat on the closet floor wrapped in his old navy sweater, her knees pulled to her chest. The scent of him still clung to the fabric—cedar and salt and something she could never name.

That’s when she saw the box.

It was small, wooden, tucked behind an old suitcase and forgotten scarves. The brass clasp was tarnished, the edges softened with time. She stared at it for a long moment before reaching for it, her hands slow, unsure.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them, neatly folded, tied with a faded blue ribbon. Her breath caught.

She knew his handwriting instantly.

But none of the envelopes were addressed to her.

The top one was labeled simply: Mae.

Clara’s chest tightened. She unfolded the letter with care, her fingers trembling.

Mae,

I dreamed of the sea again last night. It always brings me back to you. Maybe in another life, we’d have been brave enough. But I’ll keep writing. It’s the only way I know how to hold you now…

Her heart thudded in her ears. She reached for the next.

I saw a green sea glass pendant today. You always said the green ones were luckier. I almost bought it—for you, of course. But I didn’t. I’m trying to be the man I said I would be. Still, my heart hasn’t forgotten…

Clara’s throat burned.

Who was Mae?

Why had Thomas never mentioned her? And why, in all their years together, had he kept writing to a woman who wasn’t his wife?

The grief she had been holding so tightly cracked open, letting something else spill in—confusion, betrayal, disbelief.

She closed the box slowly, as if putting the lid back on would silence the questions screaming in her head.

She had loved him. Trusted him.

But maybe she hadn’t known him at all.

And as the sea whispered beyond the walls of their home, Clara realized the truth wasn’t buried with him.

It was only just beginning to surface.

Word count: approx. 540 words

Let me know if you’d like to move into Chapter Three now, or build a quick outline to track Clara’s journey from here!

The Letter in the Box

The sea was calm the day they buried him.

Clara stood beneath a sky the color of smoke, the wind lifting strands of her hair as if the world itself was unsure how to behave without him. The pastor said words she didn’t hear. Someone pressed a tissue into her hand. A woman she barely knew whispered something about time healing all wounds.

Time. She had no sense of it anymore.

People came. People cried. People left.

But Clara stayed.

She lingered after the last car rolled away, the soles of her shoes damp from the grass. The gravestone was simple—just his name, the dates, and a line she had chosen with trembling hands: “Forever in the tide.” He’d loved the ocean. Said it was the only place that made him feel both small and infinite.

She had thought he told her everything.

That night, the house was too quiet. Too full of echoes. She couldn’t bring herself to sleep in their bed, so she sat on the closet floor wrapped in his old navy sweater, her knees pulled to her chest. The scent of him still clung to the fabric—cedar and salt and something she could never name.

That’s when she saw the box.

It was small, wooden, tucked behind an old suitcase and forgotten scarves. The brass clasp was tarnished, the edges softened with time. She stared at it for a long moment before reaching for it, her hands slow, unsure.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them, neatly folded, tied with a faded blue ribbon. Her breath caught.

She knew his handwriting instantly.

But none of the envelopes were addressed to her.

The top one was labeled simply: Mae.

Clara’s chest tightened. She unfolded the letter with care, her fingers trembling.

Mae,

I dreamed of the sea again last night. It always brings me back to you. Maybe in another life, we’d have been brave enough. But I’ll keep writing. It’s the only way I know how to hold you now…

Her heart thudded in her ears. She reached for the next.

I saw a green sea glass pendant today. You always said the green ones were luckier. I almost bought it—for you, of course. But I didn’t. I’m trying to be the man I said I would be. Still, my heart hasn’t forgotten…

Clara’s throat burned.

Who was Mae?

Why had Thomas never mentioned her? And why, in all their years together, had he kept writing to a woman who wasn’t his wife?

The grief she had been holding so tightly cracked open, letting something else spill in—confusion, betrayal, disbelief.

She closed the box slowly, as if putting the lid back on would silence the questions screaming in her head.

She had loved him. Trusted him.

But maybe she hadn’t known him at all.

And as the sea whispered beyond the walls of their home, Clara realized the truth wasn’t buried with him.

It was only just beginning to surface.

Chapter Two

The Woman in the Letters

Clara didn’t sleep.

She spent the night in the living room, the wooden box of letters beside her on the coffee table like a weight she couldn’t lift. The television played quietly in the background—some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures—but she wasn’t watching. Her eyes were fixed on the words she couldn’t unread.

Mae.

The name repeated in her head, over and over, until it became unfamiliar. Meaningless. But the words Thomas had written to her were anything but.

Clara picked up another letter, one of the older ones. The paper had yellowed, the ink slightly faded.

Mae,

Today I walked past the harbor and saw the shop with the green glass in the window. You always said the green ones were luckier. I wanted to go in and buy one for you, but I couldn’t. I made a promise. Still, you were with me.

Her stomach turned. The shop. The harbor. She remembered that place—Thomas had taken her there during a weekend trip years ago. He’d insisted on stopping in that sleepy coastal town, said he wanted to show her “a place that felt like memory.”

She’d thought it was his memory. Their memory. Now she wondered if she had only been walking through someone else’s story all along.

Clara rubbed her thumb along the corner of the letter. Her fingers trembled.

What kind of man wrote love letters to someone else after getting married?

She thought back to all the little things she’d never questioned. The way he’d stare too long at the sea. The way he sometimes drifted in conversation, eyes distant. The notebook he kept in his desk drawer that she never dared read. The way he said “always” like it held more than one meaning.

Clara stood and walked to the window. The early morning light poured in, cool and pale. The sea was still in the distance, calm as glass.

She took a shaky breath.

She needed to know who Mae was.

Not because she wanted to ruin the memory of her marriage—but because she didn’t want to live the rest of her life with only half the truth. If Thomas had loved someone else, she needed to understand why. And who that woman had been to him.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from her friend Mia: “Thinking of you today. Call me if you need anything.”

Clara stared at the screen, then turned it face down.

What she needed wasn’t something anyone could give her.

She pulled out a duffel bag from the hall closet, her movements slow but steady. Jeans, sweaters, her toothbrush. She paused only once—to tuck the bundle of letters into the side pocket of the bag, close enough to feel.

Then she opened the door, the salty air rushing in.

Clara didn’t know what she’d find when she followed the trail of ink and paper.

But she knew where it began.

With Mae.