I didn’t read it right away. When I finally opened it, it was less an apology than the confession of a man seeing himself clearly for the first time and disliking what he saw.

He admitted he’d mistaken my support for certainty. He admitted he no longer knew how to begin again with nothing. He asked whether there might ever come a day when we could speak.

I folded the letter and placed it in a drawer.

Not thrown away.

Not answered.

Some doors don’t need to stay locked forever, but they must stay closed until the person outside learns to knock without carrying a bill.