The Letterpress – Part 2: The Last Line

Their first book took six months.

It was a small collection of poems by local writers, set in a clean serif type, printed on thick cream paper, bound by hand with red thread. Hannah and Priya worked on it every evening, side by side at the press. They locked the type. They inked the roller. They pulled each page with a satisfying thump and hung it to dry on lines across the studio, like washing.

On the last night, one page remained: the colophon.

"You set it," said Hannah.

"Me?"

"The last line."

Priya sat at the type case. Her hands trembled. She gathered the letters one at a time, a long line, backwards. When she locked it in the frame, she hesitated, then smiled. She pulled the lever.

The press clanked. She peeled back the sheet. At the bottom of the page, in deep crisp ink, it read: Printed by Hannah and Priya, in love.

Hannah stared at it for a long time. The studio was silent but for the tick of the cooling press. Outside, rain tapped on the window.

"Is it a mistake?" said Priya, her voice small.

"It's the only line I'd never change."

"I was afraid."

"I know."

"I set it backwards."

"That's how it works," said Hannah. Her eyes were bright. She put down the page. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Priya, laughing, breathless. "And if I say stop, you must teach me to bind."

"I'd teach you everything."

Hannah kissed her, soft and ink-smudged, a hand rising to cup Priya's cheek. Priya kissed her back, bold and bright, her fingers curling in Hannah's apron strings. The press ticked. Pages hung overhead like pale flags.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Hannah.

"Green," said Priya. "Very green."

The book sold out. The last line is still there, on every copy. On the second printing, they left the crooked w.

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