Letters to the Fire

This story is by Riley Paige and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Annabelle crushed the local newspaper in her hands and chucked it into the fire. Michael’s face was splashed all over the front page and had been for over two weeks now. Annabelle had hidden away here with her mom to disappear 6 years ago, just like Michael had years before her, just like most people who wound up in this remote mountain town that snowed 364 days a year. It didn’t lend to a community that was known for hospitality and good neighbors. And yet, her Michael had died saving a local man who had fallen through the ice. He died a hero, so the paper said, but he was still dead. And Annabelle was cold.

She glanced over at the nearly empty mug he’d left on the counter the morning that he died. He’d always left it right beside the sink instead of rinsing it off and letting it dry. She hated that he did that and had said so many time before. She was so grateful for it now, that stupid empty mug that made some small part of her feel like he was coming back for it. Back for her. She couldn’t bring herself to wash it.

She hadn’t been able to read his letters either.

Annabelle had never imagined she’d meet her favorite person at an AA meeting. As a nurse, she knew those meetings were sad but helpful. As a nurse who had found herself in the black-market business of organ “donation” and nearly got caught, she found those meetings necessary. Especially when her mother came down with dementia despite her new liver. Those meetings were about being honest, making amends, taking an account of your life. Letters were common. Over the past 5 years, Annabelle had watched Michael write so many letters, and then, when he was ready, toss them into the fireplace of their cabin. After some point, his letters to the fire had become a ritual, and one she had found comfort in. Sometimes he’d let her read them, most times he didn’t offer, but some letters he wasn’t ready to burn yet.

“I want you to read them someday…If you want to.”

He sounded so vulnerable when he’d said it. Annabelle felt like she knew some of what was in those letters he kept. Michael didn’t go by his real last name in town, but he’d told her. Michael Stoker. The boy who’s father murdered Abigail Lake, the 10 year old girl of a family friend. He killed her and buried her in the backyard when Michael was 11. He’d gotten away with it for years before Michael and his mother found the little girl’s hair bow in a box hidden in their garage. She recognized the bow as the same one in the missing pictures and Michael’s father confessed. The same father who attacked Michael when he visited him in prison. The same father who committed suicide a few days later.  And a mother who never emotionally recovered. The letters contained the guilt of a boy who sent his father to prison. The guilt of a boy who had suspected the truth for longer than he had let on.

Annabelle’s eyes flickered back and forth between the fire and his pile of letters. “These are your secrets Michael. I…I’m not sure how to read them when I never told you all of mine.” Her eyes stung and the pile of letters blurred in front of her. “I’m not sure how to not read them.”

Annabelle took a steadying breath and got up to make herself a cup of coffee. A tear escaped as she walked past Michael’s mug on the counter, her fingertip tracing the spot where his lips had pressed against it. “I have to read them, don’t I?” Her voice was muted in the walls of their cabin, and she felt the layers of snow outside like she was buried under them. Everything had been heavy and cold with Michael gone.

She turned back towards the letters, but it felt like hours before she made it back to her chair. Icy hurt clung to her chest as she pulled herself closer to the fire to get warm. She’d scanned the letters earlier this week and noticed they ranged over a few decades. Some were addressed to his parents, some to her, but most were to Abigail. She grabbed the one on top and began to read.

“Abigail,

When I left home and mom told me to never come back, it hit me. I thought about the dead look in her eyes and I sobbed. I thought about my dad, just laying there, gone, and the rage in his eyes when he was choking me. I thought about how I’ll never see him again and I pulled over because I was crying so hard I couldn’t see. Then I thought about why I’d never see him again. I thought about his grave. Then I thought about yours. You had been there, lying there in my backyard all this time. I stepped out of the car and threw up. I feel like I need to tell someone this. I need someone to know. But I know it will sound like I’m making it up to sound better because that’s how it would sound to me coming from someone else. So I’m telling you. I know you don’t care and I’ve got no reason to lie to you Abigail. Nothing I could say would make me sound better to you. And nothing I can say can hurt you. So I can be honest. You deserve the truth more than anyone anyway. The messy, ugly, stupid truth.”

Annabelle noticed the letters to his parents were a sad mix of apologies, anger, and pretending that everything was fine. There’s one about the day he met Annabelle and how he wanted to bring her home to meet his parents for Christmas one day. They were sad, but mostly they made her angry. Michael deserved better parents than he got. The letters to her were tender and unguarded. Michael had told her once that he relapsed so many times that he’d lost count. He had always tripped up on Step 5, where he needed to admit his wrongs. One letter was written shortly after he made it through that step. About a year before he met Annabelle. That letter was to Abigail, and it was a confession.

“Abigail…”

“I wish I had been brave enough to tell the truth. I’m not writing to make amends or excuses. You deserve to know the truth. You deserve to know why you died. And I deserve a life of misery in your place.”

“It’s easy to see now that you were probably just as embarrassed as I was. But it’s too late to matter now.”

“It’s all my fault.”

“I’m so sorry Abby. I know it doesn’t matter, but I’m so sorry.”

“I just wanted you to stop laughing at me”

“I found your bow after the fall. I picked it up, then didn’t know how to give it back. So I hid it.”

“My dad never believed it was an accident.”

Annabelle’s hands shook so hard she could barely read what he wrote. How he recalled playing with Abigail on the bridge just outside of town. Him asking if he could kiss her and her almost letting him before stopping to giggle and tease him. And the last line of the letter. One line at the end written over and over again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did mean to push you. I’m so sorry Abigail.”

Annabelle couldn’t breathe. She grasped for the next letter, but this one was for her. From the day where Michael had visited her mom in the nursing home not two years ago. Michael confessed that her mother, while in a foggy state, revealed the sordid truth of just how Annabelle had gotten her a new liver. The letter slipped from Annabelle’s hands.

He had known then.

He knew her secrets, but he never loved her any differently. “Those are your secrets baby. If you’re ever ready to tell me, I’ll hold them.”

Annabelle thought she didn’t have any more tears, but she cried until the fire had dwindled to embers and her tears were nearly frozen to her cheeks. She cried for the little girl who never got to live, the parents who resented loving their son, and the little boy who will never outgrow his childhood mistake.

She thought of Michael. His struggle with alcohol, his tendency to overcompensate, his patience with other people’s mistakes, and his need to help. Her wounded and tender Michael. Her chest cracked, and she felt something warm for the first time in weeks.

Annabelle found herself reaching for Michael’s mug, cleaning, and filling it with fresh coffee, before pressing her lips to the place where his had always been.