'Who writes letters these days?', Jack wondered as he opened the envelope.

Jack Percy had already decided his last act in this world would be to enjoy a good film, a good book, and a good meal. Then he would end it all. He was tired. No, tired wasn't the right word - he was weary - of fighting the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. He knew there were good things in life. He'd experienced some of them - good literature, food, music, art... But no more good people. Somewhere along the way it had all gone south like he had used up all his good and there was nothing left for him.

His wife had left him after sixty-three years - Covid. His company retired him, forty-seven years, without so much as a stinking watch. His children, once their mom was gone, seemed to lose interest in him - busy. His closest friends - long gone. He didn't know any of his neighbors - not one. Even his stupid dog had run away. Melvin. Dogs are supposed to be man's best friend, he thought.

Well, he'd seen his film, an old John Wayne western. He liked 'the Duke'. He'd read his book, an Asimov sci-fi. His head hurt too much right now for Shakespeare. He'd eaten his steak and potatoes. That left only one thing. Time to shuffle off this mortal coil.

Jack struggled to climb onto the chair. One leg, then the other shaking badly. He tried again. He paused to catch his breath when a letter slid through the mail slot. What now? Probably the IRS.
He unfolded the page.

Dear Jack,

Tomorrow will be better. I promise.
-God

Tears slid down his face as Jack slowly sank to his knees.

"Okay", he whispered. "Okay".