To Whom It May Concern,

I’ve worked here for several years now as a teller at the bank, and I must admit, it’s not just money I collect—I have a fondness for collecting stories. Everyone in this town is so interesting, with a tale worth telling, and some of my favorite stories are about the origins of Millersburg.

Like the time they say our beloved Memaw once fed an entire barn-raising crew with her famous buttermilk biscuits and ham, made from a recipe so guarded she claimed she whispered it to the flour. Or when Mr. Tate, the blacksmith, rescued a stray colt from the creek, and that very horse went on to carry the mail between Millersburg and Paris faster than the train could whistle its way through.

I’m saving up to open a bookstore one day, and the kind folks around here like to tease me by calling me the “bookkeeper.” I don’t mind—I rather like it, really. One of my most cherished “books” isn’t bound in leather or stamped with gold leaf but is Memaw’s recipe book. I’m confident it will be passed down for generations, because meals that feel like warm hugs deserve to be shared just as much as stories do.

This town has my heart, and I can’t wait to see what it becomes one day. Sometimes the townsfolk call Millersburg the “City of Light,” and I can see why. There’s a glow about this place, a charm that I believe will shine on for years to come.

Anyway, I’m placing this letter in the bank’s deposit box, so if you’re reading this in the future, I hope you’ll help me protect our stories, too, long after I’m gone. Especially these recipes—they’re the true treasure of this town.

Lovingly,
The Teller

April 17, 1925