Elias stepped away.
For one terrible second, Clara believed she had finally forced him to say what he had avoided since Laramie.
Then he crossed the room.
Opened an old wooden chest.
Reached underneath folded papers.
He returned carrying something.
A letter.
Worn.
Creased.
The paper had nearly split along one fold.
He placed it beside the mirror.
Clara recognized the handwriting immediately.
Her own.
Her first letter.
She stared.
“You kept that?”
Elias looked almost offended.
“I kept all of them.”
“This one looks like you've carried it through a war.”
“I read it.”
“How many times?”
He hesitated.
“Elias.”
“Enough.”
Clara touched the paper.
Her first awkward introduction.
My name is Clara Whitmore. I am twenty-nine years old and currently employed at the Garfield Township Library…
She remembered writing every word.
Elias stood behind her.
“In letter three, you corrected my spelling.”
Clara whispered:
“You wrote ‘separate’ wrong.”
“I know that now.”
“In letter six, you told me the library roof leaked over the geography shelves.”
She smiled faintly.
“You remembered?”
“You complained for two pages.”
“It was destroying atlases.”
“Tragedy.”
Clara turned slightly.
Elias continued.
“In letter eleven, you told me about a boy who couldn't pay his library fine.”
Her expression changed.
“He stole bread.”
“You paid the fine.”
“It was twelve cents.”
“You wrote three pages explaining why the rule mattered and why mercy mattered more.”
Clara looked at him.
“In letter eighteen, you wrote about your father.”
Her throat tightened.
“In twenty-three, you told me you were afraid of coming west.”
“Yes.”
“In twenty-seven…”
He stopped.
“What?”
Elias looked embarrassed.
“What was twenty-seven?”
“You said you sometimes woke at night wondering what my voice sounded like.”
Clara remembered.
Heat rose into her cheeks.
“You never answered that part.”
“I didn't know how.”
“You know how now?”
“Yes.”
His gaze held hers.
“It sounds like home.”
Clara stopped breathing.
Elias stepped closer.
“The day you stepped off that stagecoach, you thought I was disappointed.”
She nodded faintly.
“I wasn't.”
“Then why did you stare?”
He laughed softly.
Not mocking.
Almost amazed.
“Because you were real.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
He touched the worn letter.
“I had spent eight months knowing you here.”
Then touched his chest.
“I knew your handwriting.”
“Your temper.”
“The way you overexplain when nervous.”
“The fact that you pretend practical things matter more than feelings.”
Clara laughed through tears.
He continued.
“I knew I waited for your letters like a fool.”
His voice grew quieter.
“I knew I had already fallen in love with a woman I had never seen.”
Clara stared at him.
“You…”
“Yes.”