On Tuesday afternoon, a small girl opened the café door.
She was about ten years old, and her eyes were red.
She sat at the table and looked at nothing.
Peggy brought her warm milk with . "On the house, love."
The girl drank a little, and then the story came out.
"I had a with Lily. She is my best friend."
"I told her that her picture was ."
"But it wasn't true. I was just angry, because she won the art ."
"Did you say sorry?" Hana asked gently.
The girl — her name was Emma — shook her head.
"I can't. When I see her face, I get too ."
Peggy sat down slowly beside her.
"Then don't say it, love. Write it."
"Writing is slower than talking, so your heart can catch up."
She brought clean paper and a pen.
Emma looked at the white paper. "How do I start?"
"Start with her name," Hana said. "Dear Lily."
"Then write the true thing: I am sorry for my words."
"I didn't mean it. Your picture was beautiful."
"And at the end, you can ask: Can you me?"
Emma wrote slowly, pressing the pen very hard.
When she finished, she read it three times.
"But I still can't give it to her," she said.
"Then the box will keep it," Peggy said.
"That is the here: it waits until you are ready."
Emma placed her letter in the wooden box.
But at the door, she stopped.
She walked back and took the letter out again.
"If it stays in the box, Lily can't read it," she said.
"I want her to read it today."
She held the letter tight and ran down the street.
The next day, Emma came back with another girl.
They shared one big piece of chocolate cake, laughing.
"Lily cried and me," Emma whispered. "We are okay now."
Hana smiled, but her felt strangely heavy.
"I have a letter I cannot give, too," she thought.
That evening, Peggy cleaned the wooden box with a soft cloth.
"A letter is not born when you write it, dear," she said. "It is born on the day it arrives."