The café had exactly seven tables, and Maya chose the one by the window, same as every Thursday. She'd counted them once, during her second week, when she still thought counting things might quiet her mind.
The man at table four was reading a letter. Actual paper, cream-colored, the handwriting visible from where Maya sat—looping and careful. He'd been there when she arrived, and she watched him fold it, unfold it, read it again. His coffee went cold.
Maya opened her laptop but didn't type. Her deadline was in three hours, but all she could think about was the letter. Who still wrote letters? Who still wrote them by hand?