First Note

The notes started on a Wednesday.

At 3:04am, while Jamie was restocking the cold and flu aisle and listening to the particular silence that a city makes at that hour — not quiet, but emptied of intent — something slid under the security shutter with a small sound.

A folded piece of paper. Plain white. No envelope.

Jamie unfolded it.

*I know this is strange. I didn't know where else to start. The pharmacy is the only light on for three blocks and I've been walking for two hours. I think I'm going in circles. I'm not in trouble, I just needed to write this to someone who wouldn't recognize my name. — E.*

Jamie read it twice. Then looked at the security shutter, which showed exactly what the security shutter always showed: the empty sidewalk, a parked car, the dark shopfront across the street.

Nobody there.

The obvious thing was to ignore it. The obvious thing was to fold it back up and put it in the recycling and get back to the cold and flu aisle.

Jamie found a notepad behind the counter. Tore off a page.

*I work here alone most nights. I won't recognize your name. — J.*

Slid it under the shutter.

Went back to the aisle.

At 3:31am another note came.

*Thank you. I wasn't sure you'd answer. I used to live here, a long time ago. I keep walking past places and feeling like I left things in them. Is that normal?*

Jamie recognized the handwriting.

Jamie sat down on the floor of the cold and flu aisle and held the note.

Fifteen years was a very long time. Long enough that a person should have stopped recognizing handwriting. And yet.

*E* was a name. Or the start of one.

And there were only so many people who had left this city with things unfinished.