Marge was lonely. To most, loneliness is simply an unpleasant passing emotion; a brief annoyance that is regarded rather like a paper cut or a rodent problem. But to very few, loneliness is a state of being that has been cultivated from birth and settles into their fragile bones at a young age, becoming like the marrow from which they draw their strength. Marge was one of these few people. Loneliness and shame were like her shadow, lying low and dark, and hard to see in certain light.
But truly lonely people don't really realize how lonely they are until it's too late. And for them to see this obscure and unmoving part of themselves, it takes a series of very specific and unlikely events. Marge was about to experience such a series of events.

The first event was revealed, as many are often revealed, on a very cold winter day. Marge began her daily walk, despite the fact that her old and lonely bones begged her not to expose them to the chill. Her thin legs carried her rickety body through the crisp snow. Her worn winter boots slowly plowed a fresh trail to the mailbox at the end of the long and barren road.

She reached towards the mailbox with a shaky hand, prepared for the usual sight. But today, instead of emptiness, a brightly colored envelope caught her eye through a fog of breath. She squinted through her thick lenses. She reached in and carefully pulled the envelope towards her, handling it as if it were made of delicate glass. At this moment, her chest was filled with a warm, long forgotten sensation. Relief. She would have ripped the envelope open had the unforgiving cold not warned her against removing her gloves. So instead, she trudged back home, following the trail that her boots had made.

As she plodded down the road, she struggled to read the information that had been neatly printed on the envelope, but her glasses had fogged over with breath and condensation. So she trudged on.

At home, with her winter boots cleaned of ice and snow, and placed by the warm hearth, she lowered her body into the welcoming embrace of her favorite chair and carefully read the printing on the outside of the envelope. Although her body ached from the cold, and her toes and ears were still numb, the excitement that passed through her distracted her from these things when she read the name above the return address.

Gordon Young
145 West Elm St.
Dayton, Ohio 45410

Where had she heard this name before? The ghost of her younger self passed through her as she read it. A brazen, untamable, beautiful young woman. Suddenly her grip seemed more sure, and her hands more capable. She opened the envelope with the grace of a girl.
The letter had been handwritten (something that was rarely seen in that time) in the same careful handwriting that had decorated the front of the envelope.

Dear Ms. Collado,

I write to you today with a heavy heart. My father, Gabby Young, has passed away recently. Upon sorting his possessions, I have come across this letter, which I believe was intended for you. If this note was intended for another woman named Gabrielle Collado, I apologize for the inconvenience.

Best,
Gordon Young

Merely reading the name Gordon Young inspired Gabrielle's eyes to moisten, which was a reaction that she hadn't experienced in two decades. Ashamed of her brief bout of emotion, she swallowed forcibly and shut her eyes, hoping for it to pass. Emotion was something that she had never been quite comfortable with.
Visions of a young man with cleanly parted dark hair and dark, fiery eyes emerged from the depths of her subconscious. Even in memory, his eyes seemed to pull her towards him. He had a smile that was laced with playful balefulness, that, at one time, had matched her own so well.

How long had it been? Forty years, at least. And it had been such a brief liaison. Forty years since she had experienced the warmth of a kiss. Forty years of complete solitude. Four decades in hiding.