Folded on the bridge.

Daniel weaves through the crowds at the end of Westminster Bridge.

He has dodged three shots so far, politely walking around camera-wielders.

There’s one more ahead.

He turns and slides past a middle aged woman posing before her middle aged husband, who has backed off the pavement and into the traffic.

“Idiot,” thinks Daniel, with a friendly nod.

Suddenly a blaring horn and the man jumps back onto the curb as a bus thunders past.

And a woman sitting at the window looks at him.

Her eyes.

Somehow she knows him.

Somehow she’s important.

He opens his mouth, but he can’t make a sound.

He raises his hand as if to signal, but the bus has gone, taking her with it.

He stands.

Crowds swirl around him and he stands a while. The wind reddens his face.

He pulls a page from the notebook he always carries with him, uncaps the fountain pen he always carries, inscribed on the lid with the best wishes of a former lover.

And he writes a letter for her.

He’ll leave it folded at the end of the bridge.

He knows that somehow she’ll find it.

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