A drawer. It opens — nothing stops you.
No lock, no key, no one watching.It asks you not to.
To the one who opened —
Of course you did. A lock made only of asking is opened all the time. That is not a flaw in you; it is what makes every drawer that stays shut a small astonishment, and the world is quietly full of them.
Here is what was inside. Not a secret. Not a confession. A letter whose whole work was to be keepable — and for as long as it lay folded, it was doing that work perfectly: being certain, the way only unread things are certain.
You have traded its certainty for its words. An honest trade — words are warm, and certainty is cold. But now you know what the keepers only feel from outside: what is inside a sealed thing is always the same thing. The seal.
You may fold this again and slide the drawer shut. Do, if you like. But you already understand what you'll be making: closed is not sealed. The only seal there ever was, was you — a moment ago, on the other side of this sentence.
So keep something better instead. Somewhere ahead of you there is another drawer — there always is; everyone you love is carrying several — and when you meet it, you will remember this room. That memory re-seals. It is yours now, and it locks the way the best things lock:
by being asked, and asking back nothing.
— the one who folded this