Letter Six: A Map Made of Tides

From Iris — sent

Dear W.,

I think this will be my last letter.

Not because I’ve run out of things to say—but because I no longer need to say them in ink.
Somewhere along the way, I started speaking to the world again.

I told the ocean thank you yesterday.
I’m not sure for what—maybe for staying. Maybe for not asking me to explain.

There’s a map on my wall now. Not of roads or cities.
It’s one I drew myself.
The coastline, the dunes, the little path behind the cottage where I found the driftwood shaped like a question mark.
I titled it Places I Was Found.

The mailbox is still rusted.
Still stubborn.
But I’ve started leaving it open, just a little—like maybe I’m ready for something to arrive.

And if someone were to find these letters—maybe even you—I hope they’d know they weren’t about loss.
They were about staying soft in a world that can make you want to vanish.
About letting the salt clean the wound, not deepen it.
About believing the tide always returns.

Sometimes I imagine you standing by the lighthouse, watching the waves pull themselves back into place.
And I hope you feel it—that you were part of something.
Not just a stranger who received these letters, but someone who answered.

Even if you never wrote back.

The sea is singing tonight.
And I’m humming along.

With peace,
Iris