The envelope jammed in my mailbox. Wrong address: 14 instead of 41. Inside: a letter for Cordelia, in looping handwriting. 'Darling,' it starts, 'I know it's been too long. I owe you a conversation I've been too scared to have.'

I open it. Can't help it. I just have to see what's inside, what made someone write something so desperate.

It's desperate. Raw. 'You left without saying goodbye. I've written this a hundred times. I'm sending it now because I'm out of time. Please come home.'

The postmark says yesterday. This isn't old. This is LIVE. Whoever wrote this is in crisis right now. Maybe alone. Maybe waiting. I have to find Cordelia. But how?

I find her on social media, write her directly, and send her the original letter. She reads it, her eyes filling, and she writes him back. Within a week they're talking every day. Within a month they're meeting in person.