I wrote from the perspective of an older man who has just experienced the loss of his partner. The man and his partner never had any children, and as a result, he found himself writing letters to non-existent children as a way to express his thoughts and feelings. However, as time passed, the letters were simply stored away, never to be sent or read by anyone. This is the final letter he will write to his imaginary children.

I remember seeing him sit by himself. Everyone passed by without a second glance. The fish market moved in a mesmerising pattern. The people swayed like grass in the wind, all tightly packed, rolling as metal ball bearings. The owner of each stall ran their mouths with a disarming, charismatic desperation. Some stopped to talk and make purchases. Some wander through like they're at a museum, looking at fanciful paintings with deeper meanings. Others just passed with the determination to lease as soon as possible.