These are a few of my favourite things

Wilhelm stands across the street, late morning drizzle slowly turning his coat damp as he stares at the door.

He knows he shouldn’t be here. He knows the whole business is most likely an attempt to cash in on the grief and longing of people like him. He knows the service the man claims to offer sounds impossible, a bluff, even if the people he’s talked to are adamant it is real. He knows he should not waste his money on it.

And yet.

The clock strikes the hour and the door opens just slightly, to indicate the business is now open for the day. Wilhelm knows he should turns around and walk back home.

He crosses the street.

The door is heavy, but swing open surprisingly easily. Inside, the lights are dim save for the one brightly lit lamp on the desk sitting almost in the middle of the small room.

Wilhelm looks around and takes in the several potted plants, the burgundy armchair and small wooden table by the window and the large shelves behind the desk.

There is a man standing behind the desk, facing the shelves. He’s shorter than Wilhelm and his brown curls tickle the collar of his orange sweatshirt. It’s an oddly casual thing to wear for something like this, Wilhelm finds himself thinking.

When the man turns, Wilhelm is met with warm eyes. The man must be around his age, much younger than Wilhelm expected. If he recognises Wilhelm, he doesn’t let it show.

“Hello. I’m Simon, how can I help you?” the man asks, the timbre of his voice soothing.

Wilhelm opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’d, uhh, like to send a letter,” he stammers, as if it wasn’t somehow obvious. Wilhelm wonders if Simon asks every person entering the room the same question.

“Of course,” Simon nods, his eyes studying Wilhelm’s face, ”Have you sent a letter before?”

A hollow laugh escapes Wilhelm. He has sent more letters in his life than he can count. Official correspondence, written on thick cream coloured paper and signed with fountain pens. “Not like this,” is what he answers, scraping his thumbnail against the cuticle of his pinkie.

Simon nods again. “That’s alright. I assume you’re here because someone recommended it. How familiar are you with letters like ours?”

Wilhelm shrugs, feeling the back of his neck grow warmer. “I just know you write down what I say and then… send the letter somewhere?”

Simon’s response is a tired sigh, so quiet if Wilhelm wasn’t paying attention he’d probably miss it. “Yes, I write down what you want to tell the person you’re addressing the letter to. The recipient will receive your message once I’ve finished writing, and the letter will then cease to exist. There will be no envelope with your name waiting if you come back, that’s not how this works. If you get a response, you will know it, but it does not come in a letter form.”

This time it’s Wilhelm’s turn to nod. He was told there would be no letters to him, not as long as he was on this side. It’s the thought of being able to tell what’s on his mind, what no one else will understand, that’s driven him here.

“I understand,” Wilhelm says.

“Good. Many people don’t.”

Wilhelm wonders what kind of people Simon has had to encounter before. If people have demanded responses to their letters from him, threatened him when told it would not happen. He wonders what people have confessed in their letters, and if Simon remembers all the things he writes down.

“Do you, uhh, keep track of who comes here? What they want to say in the letters?” he asks instead, looking at the shelves behind Simon.

“I only keep track as much as I need to. Everything you say in the letter is confidential and I will not judge you for your words,” Simon says and the way he speaks reminds Wilhelm a bit of his therapist. “Do you still want me to write a letter for you?” Simon asks then.

“Yes,” Wilhelm says, after the briefest moment of hesitation. There isn’t anything for him to lose. He isn’t sure there’s anything to gain either, but it won’t hurt to try. ”How does this work?”

Simon points at the armchair as he sits down behind the desk. As Wilhelm lowers himself down the plush chair, Simon pulls forward an ordinary looking sheet of paper and picks up a pen. Then he looks at Wilhelm and holds his gaze when he asks, “Who would you like to send the letter to? Who has died?”