As you pull up to the stop light, you reach forward to turn off the heat and defrost. The light turns green. You turn them back on. Rinse and repeat. If you don’t, your car starts screaming at everyone no sooner than you pressing on the breaks. Eight minutes in and you can forgo the defrost. Ten minutes and the heat finally kicks in. Too bad at that point you’re almost home, but those last five minutes of warmth is worth the silly little effort. Fifteen minutes and you’re home.

It’s not a bad commute, but it’s been a long night and you’re exhausted. Tires crunch on fresh snow as you back into your designated parking spot. You loop your hand through the arm of your backpack, hoisting it on your shoulder as you reach for your phone and pull the keys out of the ignition. Puffs of breath cloud the air as you quickly head to the mailbox. Grabbing the small pile of mail, you focus on fiddling with your keys. Finding the one that opens the front door just as you approach it and head inside.

The backpack finds its home next to your front door. The mail gets tossed carelessly onto the corner of your bed. Ridding yourself of everything occupying your hands, freeing them to fiddle with the heater. Only then do you rush to the bathroom, desperate for a hot shower to warm your skin. Your room is small, and your heater does well enough but it takes a while to warm up. That’s okay though, after a long shower—between the heater, the electric blanket you got for Christmas, and a nice cup of tea you’ll be plenty warm.

Out of habit, you stick your hand under the water as soon as the water starts running. You know it’s not warm as soon as you turn it on. You only wish you had one of those tank-less water heaters. You stick your hand under the water more times than necessary until it’s warm enough. Only then do you hastily strip yourself of the day’s clothes, stepping under the warm water with a soft groan in your throat. Truly, the best part of getting off work on a cold day.

It doesn’t take long for you to shower, unfortunately. Though you do take longer than you need to during the winter months, you know you can’t stay in there forever. Reluctantly, you turn the water and step out, hastily drying your wet skin and wrapping yourself in a robe. There’s nothing worse then stepping into dry clothes when your skin is still damp. Instead, you take the time to head to your kitchen, hugging the robe against yourself as you curse the chill.

The familiar sound of rushing water. The soft click of the kettle’s lid. The piercing beep as it tells you it’s on—you know. Impatiently, you wait for the water to boil while you prepare your mug and some tea. The second beep never comes fast enough. You never bother to let it steep. You pour the heated water into your mug with a satisfying gurgle and rush back to your room.

Quickly shutting the door to keep in building heat in, you shuffle to the bed. Mug in one hand, and the other reaching for the pile of mail you dropped on your bed on the way in. It’s only once you settle under the sheets, mug set on the bedside table and covers pulled over you, do you finally notice that that there is red in this sea of white. Brows furrow as you pluck the ruby square from the fan of white, dropping the rest of what is surely junk mail to the side.

The back is sealed. You run your fingers over indented silver wax before flipping the envelope over. There’s no stamp. Someone must have slipped it in your mailbox themselves. The only thing adoring the front is beautiful cursive in the shape of your initials that you trace tentatively. It’s familiar. Unmistakable. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. hat could have prompted a letter after all this time? Should you really read this? Another deep breath. You remove the seal.

Your name, curled in beautiful script gives way to carefully written text.

Tears run down your face, falling on the page and smudging the black ink on the final words, scripted under his signature.