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Nice to meet you.

Agree, the program is a little outdated, but it’s such a fast and practical way to learn the job. Plus, I like writing letters. Something personal about it, you know? Like I purposefully spend time crafting a message meant for that one person.

Sorry, I’m getting sappy (already, god . . .).

You already have more information on me than I do on you, as the only address I got for my letters was the one for your dorm. I’m lucky enough to live at home while I finish college. Though fair warning: my mailman and I are playing a game called “catch me if you can, asshole.” The rules are pretty simple: if I miss him, he never delivers my mail. So if you don’t hear from me within two weeks, write to me again. Emile probably burned the letter or shredded it in his office. It’s a long story . . .

You chose an interesting topic for your first article! Hope you didn’t know someone or haven’t lived through something similar yourself. Dating apps are the worst. I don’t do well online. I prefer organic ways to meet, which is a short way of saying that I’ve been single forever. Maybe I should rethink not using the apps. It’s clearly not working well for me.

Anyway, I won’t take any more of your time.

Till next time!

O.

Attached article

What makes a town live: Jerry’s famous grilled salmon becomes a must-see tourist destination

Chapter Two

NORTHERN ATTITUDE

Oliver

The For Sale sign across the street hangs on the door of what used to be my grandparents’ beloved restaurant. It’s taunting me, mocking me for failing to honor my legacy and keep the restaurant in the family.

Almost failing.

It’s not over yet. Although I don’t see how I’ll be able to gather the kind of money I’d need to buy it back from the town before Oscar sweeps in and closes the deal.

It’ll only be a matter of months now, I guess.

I look down at the empty notebook page on my lap, the weeping willow shading me from the unusually hard-beating sun as I wait for Matt to arrive with the setup for the festival. It’s September, for crying out loud, yet here I am in shorts and a T-shirt, sweat coating my temples.

I miss fall. Real fall. The kind of fall when the best place to be is under the covers on the couch, with the rain splattering gently outside and playing that oh-so-melodious sound on the orange leaves that have slipped to the ground. The kind where draping a cardigan over your shoulders, and with a hot cup of coffee in hand, is the only way to go outside. The kind where, when hiking, there’s no escaping the brilliant palette of colors bursting to life, nor the smells of earth and maple leaves that fill the senses, that perfect blend of musky and sweet that’s so distinctive of this time of year.

I miss the fall of my childhood.

And none of these thoughts are helping me with the ones I need to put on paper.

I sigh, brushing my fingers through the waves of hair falling into my eyes. I’ve been writing these letters for years now, and I’ve always found the words to express what weighed heavily on my heart. And although they no longer make their way to her, they’ve always been healing for my soul.

But today, nothing’s happening.

Maybe it’s a sign that I need to stop. Let go of my past and forget about her. Maybe I don’t have anything to say anymore, or maybe she feels so distant to me now that my brain doesn’t understand that she was more than just a memory.

From the corner of my eye, I spot my friend’s red pickup parking in front of the town’s park.

“Hey, Oli! Can you give me a hand?” Matt calls from his truck.

“Coming!” I set my pen and notebook on the grass beside the old wooden bench.

Matt makes his way toward me, a folding table in one hand and a gorgeous flower arrangement in the other.

“Who are these for?” I ask, taking the flowers. “Is this an order, or did you just make it for today?”

Matt grunts as he sets the table down and opens it. “For today. I had time last night and was inspired. I’m manifesting fall.”