Dead Letters Don’t Die
A letter arrived yesterday was written 5 years ago…
Sifting through the usual junk mail stuffed in my mailbox, I can’t help but wonder why restaurants still waste money on these flyers. Don’t they know social media exists?
I gather the stack—destined for the recycling bin—along with a box of books I ordered online and a few other envelopes. For some reason, I keep getting mail for the previous owners, even though the elderly couple moved out of state years ago to be closer to their grandkids. No matter how many times they updated their address, these companies just won’t give up.
Maneuvering the boxes, my bag, my coffee cup, and the flyers, I push open the door and set everything on the table. Shoes off, jacket discarded—I finally sit down. My books are here. My beautiful, special edition, signed-by-the-author books.
I take them in my hands, breathing in that unmistakable scent—new paper, fresh ink, the faint sharpness of marker where the author scrawled their signature. This is why I work. For moments like this. For my books.
Sipping my coffee, I absentmindedly flip through the flyers. Sometimes, if the graphics are nice, I cut them up for my journal. Then something catches my eye.
An envelope.
It’s yellowed, edges slightly curled, the ink on the front nearly faded. I pick it up. It was sent five years ago—Monday, February 10, 2020. No return address. A mistake from the postal service, I assume.
Then I read the recipient’s name.
Ms. Love 157 Forgotten Street, Mirador Building, 3rd Floor, Apartment 302 Fog City, ZIP 47820
My name. My address.
I blink. This has to be a joke. My friends love pranking me before my birthday, but this? This is elaborate. Sometimes, I don’t get their humor, but I have to admit—they have wild imaginations. They should channel it into something more productive than messing with me.
Still. I’m curious.
I open the envelope.
Monday, February 10, 2020
I looked everywhere. Asked around. Followed every lead. It wasn’t easy, but guess what?
I found you.
My pulse slams against my ribs. The last line, scrawled like a desperate whisper, reads:
Look out the window.
The air thickens. My throat tightens. Every nerve in my body screams at me to burn the letter, to throw it away, to run.
But something stronger—curiosity, instinct, something darker—forces me to move.
I turn my head.
And there. Right. There.
Someone.
Watching.
Smiling.
Raising a hand.
Then—
The doorbell rings.
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