I swallow hard, tasting salt.
My fingers trace the crease of the letter.
Slowly.
Reverently.
Like touching it might detonate something.
Something inside me already has.
The walls feel too close.
The lights too bright.
The house too quiet.
The air too thin.
I drag in a shaking breath—and open the letter.
My hands shake so badly I tear the edge as I unfold it.
The paper is creased from being held too tightly—not neatly folded, not careful.
Like someone gripped it too hard.
Like someone needed it.
The handwriting hits me like a punch to the chest.
Sharp.
Chaotic.
Pressed too deep into the page like the pen was a weapon and the paper deserved it.
I read the first line.
And my breath stops.
Scarlett,
You shouldn’t be reading this.
You shouldn’t have your hands on something that belongs to me.
But you always did like touching things you weren’t supposed to.
You sent this back to the prison four years ago.
Unopened.
Returned to sender like I was some stranger.
You really thought a stamp could stop me?
You really thought closing a door made me disappear?
