The Notebook-5 (Final)
Near midnight, with a new mellenium stretching ahead for miles and miles and the snow whipping all around her, a woman named Hilary Thomas leaned onto the wrought iron railing and pulled herself up the stairs to her tiny craft store. A snowdrift the size of a Manhattan tower leaned into the entrance and she shoveled it aside, then grabbed a thick wad of mail out of her mailbox and trundled inside. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it over her chair and sat down to shuffle through the large lump of mail. There were bills, always bills, and a request for a handmade ledger for a wedding, at the bottom of the stack a simple cardboard notebook stared up at her.
She turned the leather bound book in her hand.
She recognized it. It was an older notebook that she had made sometime in the early nineties when she was working with the German long stitch technique and trying to use recycled products. She opened it and flipped through the pages, which were empty except for one strange word written in a scratchy, nearly desperate handwritting.
She read the word aloud–-”Botswain”-–unsure of whether to punctuate it as a flat statement or a curious lifting question.
Then she repeated it–-”Botswain.”