Seven Letters to a Stranger

Ada received a letter meant for the former tenant. She meant to forward it, but a line visible through the torn envelope made her pause: I hope your new life has a table big enough for friends.

She sent a note explaining the mistake. Three days later, the sender replied. His brother had moved again without updating anyone. Ada could throw the letter away.

Instead, she wrote: My table seats two. I have not tested the friendship part yet.

His name was Owen. He was thirty-six, repaired instruments and disliked describing himself in messages. Ada was thirty-two and had just changed cities. They agreed on one rule: no invented versions of themselves.

It sounded easy before either had to try.