The apartment was quiet that evening. Julian had gone to meet an old friend for dinner, leaving me with the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sound of a car passing on the street below. I made a cup of chamomile tea and set it on the desk by the window, then pulled out the small stack of envelopes I kept in the back of the drawer.

They were all addressed the same way—in my own handwriting, without dates, without explanations. I had started the habit years ago, in the first weeks of ...