Death is always with us, our constant companion, in partnership with life, watching us from the sidelines. While we are living, we are also dying; every second spent living is a second closer to the end of our days. The balance inevitably tips. Death is there at our fingertips all the time and we choose not to go to it and it chooses not to take us. Death doesn't push us; death catches us when we fall.
A woman's husband writes letters to her which are given to her after his death; they help her carry on. "It's only paper, but it's not. They're only words, but they're not. We're only here for such a short time, the paper will outlive us all, it will scream, shout, roar, sing our thoughts, feelings, frustrations, and all the things that go unsaid in life. The paper will act as a messenger for their loved ones to read and hold; words from a mind, controlled by a beating heart. Words mean life." Seven years after his death, she becomes involved with a group of terminally ill people, helping them leave letters behind for their loved ones though the journey has its ups and downs, and she spends an inordinate amount of time wondering whether it's worth it. After all, helping others could take her backwards and inconvenience her. She sticks it out and ultimately finds a way to help that works both for her and those she intends to work with.