The Tram Moves Slow

The tram passes through the grey concrete streets of the city I know but cannot name. A humid smell of brine and old wool settles on my coat. I hold the letter; the ink matches the slight bleed on the postcard corner, and the looping cursive is mine. I turn it over. The weight of the paper feels disproportionate to its size. I feel a pull, a specific aching weight in my chest, directed toward a place of cedar smoke and yellow tile I have never seen. The passage slows until the tracks squeal a high, metallic note. I reach the end of the block where the brick wall holds a single door. It swings inward, revealing not a hallway, but a matching door of polished oak, waiting behind it. The second door has a brass knob cool to the touch. I lift my hand to the knob.