Page 28 of Sinister

Yours.

I stare at the letter. Yours. No name. Just that word.

Why won’t he write his name?

And yet, I read the letter again and again.

“My beautiful darling,” he called me. The words stir something warm inside me. Too warm. I shake my head, trying to dispel the strange heat curling in my chest.

I take the book to the fireplace and start reading.

By the third day, I have finished it. I close the cover, a pang of disappointment settling in my stomach. It’s over. And with it, perhaps, this entire exchange. Maybe he will not leave me another book. Maybe this was it—his apology.

And yet, the night after finishing it, I still check the windowsill.

This time, there is another book. A different title. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

Tucked within the first page is a letter.

Have I perhaps contributed to that curiosity of yours, my beautiful darling?

Perhaps this will help me put myself in your good graces again. It is a story of appearances that deceive. A story of immortality, but not as one might imagine. Because immortality, though desirable, can be lonely.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Just remember one thing—appearances deceive. You are not who you seem to be, and I am not who I seem to be. We are all far different than what the world perceives us to be.

And at the end, again,

Yours.

I trace my fingers over the word before picking up the book and settling in for another long night of reading.

When daylight creeps through my window once more, I return the book to the sill—this time, with my own note.

If appearances deceive, then who are you, stranger?

I don’t sign it. I leave it at that. Even though I itch to write the same appellation he uses.

Yours.

But I cannot, can I? I am not his. He is not mine. We are just two strangers playing a game, wondering how long we can continue before we are caught.

The next letter, though, surprises me.

So you are curious about me, my beautiful darling.

If you are curious, then perhaps I should let myself be known. But not now. Not yet. I like the shadows far too much. I like watching you wonder about me.

I continue reading, and when I finish the book, I leave another letter.

Yes. I am curious. I want to know why you are watching me. How you are doing it. I want to know—why me?

When the next letter comes, I unfold it with bated breath.

Why you?

He writes,

Why not you?