The crisp white envelope felt strangely heavy in Arthur’s hands. He’d recognized the handwriting immediately: Mildred, from his childhood. The envelope, sealed with an ornate wax stamp, had arrived just this morning, after decades of silence. Inside, a handwritten apology for the lost marbles, the ones Arthur coveted above all others. He’d been inconsolable then, and now, a small, selfish voice whispered, he was entitled to something more. A pang of something unpleasant flared in his chest, a feeling he quickly suppressed.
He’d finally managed to secure the last remaining edition of the first-edition comic he'd been tracking, and was planning to add it to his collection. The timing, Arthur thought sourly, was atrocious. He felt a sharp, possessive urge towards the comic and the letter from Mildred only served to make him less content. He wanted them both.
Arthur carefully unfolded the letter. Mildred spoke of regret, of childish impulses. He skimmed the words, feeling a sudden heat in his cheeks. He could sell the comic book. The thought was tempting. It would settle the debt.
The weight of the unopened comic book rested heavily in his bag, a tangible reminder of what he wanted. He closed his eyes, imagining the possibilities. Then, with a curt, decisive movement, he shoved the letter into the wastebasket.