The renewal notice arrived in October, as it did every year. He had fifteen minutes before his next meeting and opened it at his desk.
The deposit record had not changed. Depositor: Duen. Recipient: Jorn. Date: October 2011. Status: Active. Access status: Not accessed. He had the option to renew for another year, convert to permanent status, or allow the deposit to expire at the close of the current term. He read through the options and then looked out the window for a moment.
He had written the letter in the first year of the estrangement, when the thing he had done still felt close and clarifiable. He had believed then that a letter, written carefully and with enough honesty, might function as the conversation he had been unable to have in person. He had certified the deposit and submitted it and then waited for the access notification the system would send when Jorn opened it. The notification had not come. He had waited six months, then a year, then five, then he had stopped counting years and started counting renewals.
The estrangement was fifteen years old. The letter was fifteen years old. The registry did not distinguish between a letter that was unknown to the recipient and one that was known and left unopened. Jorn might have searched his own name and found the deposit record and decided not to access it. Jorn might have no idea the letter was there. Duen had no way to know which.
What he did know: whatever he had written at thirty-seven was now fifteen years behind him. He was not the same person who had written it. He did not know if what it said was still true or if it had curdled into something partial, or something that was true once and was true again now but had not been true in the middle years when things had arranged themselves differently. He had not read it since he submitted it. The registry allowed depositors to withdraw letters, but he had never done that either.
He clicked renew.