Chapter 20: All Unfinished Letters

Years later, people in the bay said the lighthouse held two kinds of light.

One was for ships. The other was for letters. The first helped people avoid reefs; the second helped them arrive at themselves.

Chaoyin often opened the window on windless afternoons and laid new pages on the sill. She never hurried them away. She knew some words must wait until the speaker is ready too, and only then will the wind rise.

Whenever the first page lifted toward the sea, she remembered the last thing the old man had taught her: true delivery is not arrival at an address, but the end of running away.