Unopened, But Carried

A story about the letters we don’t read—and the love they still hold

Being a chauffeur in Monaco is like living backstage at a silent opera. You see costume changes, hear rehearsals of breakdowns, and wait in alleyways while the audience only glimpses the show. Most people think the drama happens on stage. But some of the truest moments arrive in the back seat—wet, quiet, and late.

Some adjust their watch straps. Others check their reflection like trying to remember who they were. A few just sit in silence, the kind that only comes after being loud for too long.

That Tuesday, the storm came early. Monaco looked like it had been painted in watercolor and then left out in the rain. I was halfway through my usual airport loop when the app pinged: unplanned pickup. No destination listed. Just a name: Léonard. No title. No luggage. Just one instruction:

“Find the man with the umbrella that refuses to open.”

I scanned the plaza like casting for a play. One man was arguing with a valet. Another was folding a newspaper into a hat. But then I saw him—motionless, not even pretending to wait. Just existing in the downpour like it owed him something.

I nearly ignored it.

But I didn’t.

Because something in that line—refuses to open—felt personal.

I found him standing under the glass awning outside Café de Paris. Everyone else was pressed into doorways, umbrellas like shields. But this man—late sixties, maybe older—was holding his umbrella closed at his side like a wounded bird. Drenched. Unmoving.

Rain slicked his overcoat into the shape of someone who’d stopped caring. Behind him, people ran from doorway to doorway, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even glance at the car. It was like he’d been waiting for someone else—and when I arrived, he decided I was close enough.

He saw me pull up and stepped into the car without a word.

“Where to?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at his umbrella like it had betrayed him.

After a beat, he murmured, “Just drive. I don’t mind the rain.”

Most people in Monaco mind the rain. They treat it like an insult. But this man spoke like someone who had earned the right to be soaked.

I drove.

No destination. Just the slow meander of someone who didn’t need to arrive—only to escape staying still.

We passed the drenched gardens of Casino Square. He said nothing.

Passed the cliff roads above Cap d’Ail. Still nothing.

But somewhere around the curve near the Oceanographic Museum, he finally spoke.

“She always said umbrellas were a metaphor.”

I’m not usually one for metaphors. They tend to fog up the glass instead of clearing it. But the way he said it—like quoting scripture—made me believe it mattered.

I glanced in the mirror. He was watching the sea.

“‘Everyone carries one,’ she’d say. ‘But not everyone remembers to open them.’”

He looked down at the useless bundle in his lap.

“Forty-two years married, and I only remembered to open it after she was gone.”

Silence after that. Not the heavy kind. The respectful kind. The kind you give someone who isn’t sad—they’re remembering.

After a while, he laughed.

“I’m not a sentimental man. Or I wasn’t. Not until the house got quiet. Now even her perfume bottle feels like a manuscript I’ll never understand.”

I didn’t speak. I’ve learned to let memories arrive without interruption.

“She left me a list,” he said. “In the drawer by the stove. Titled: ‘For when you feel lost.’ Just five things.”

I waited. He didn’t elaborate. Just stared out the window like the sea might be able to recite it for him.

I took the lower road through Fontvieille. Slower. Quieter.

Eventually, he said, “Number four on the list was: Go for a drive with no purpose. Take someone with you who doesn’t ask questions.”

I smiled at that.

“Sounds like I’m the right man for the job.”

He gave a faint nod.

“She always liked drivers. Said you were the only people who understood how to move forward while sitting still.”

It made sense. I’ve driven people to hospitals, lawyers, and reunions they regret. Sometimes, the only honest thing they do all day is sit quietly while the world slips past the window.

We stopped at a red light. He touched the window, trailing a finger through the condensation. A slow circle. Then a line through it. The beginnings of a symbol. Then he wiped it away with his sleeve.

“She believed in poetry,” he said. “Even when we argued. Especially then.”

“What was number five on the list?” I asked gently.

He chuckled.

“‘Eat something sweet even when you don’t want to.’”

I liked her already.

As the rain began to lighten, I asked if he wanted to stop somewhere.

He thought for a moment. Then said, “There’s a pastry shop in La Condamine. She used to meet her sister there. I always said their lemon tarts were too sharp. She said I was just afraid of things that bite back.”

I turned toward it.