The Letter

He swallowed slowly, past the sticky dryness in his mouth, blinked through the unwelcome moistness in his eyes, and gently pushed the door open.

It gave without any sound; not a hint to give his own fright justification. It opened smoothly and slowly. Solemnly. He licked his lips. Swallowed again. Glanced back into the deserted street and stepped from the dusty doorstep and into the entrance hall. He breathed out.

It was very dark, compared to the blinding hotness of the outside. Moments passed as he allowed himself to adjust to the light difference and then stepped forward. Stopped. He glanced down at the dusty floorboards and wondered if he should remove his shoes. True, no one had lived in the house for two years (two fucking years!), but was it proper to take them off? Was it respectful? Or just silly? Maybe he should keep them on.

After a long moment's internal debate, he took them off. Shoes now discarded, safely tucked into a corner, he proceeded, stepping down the dark, infinite hallway. He left the front door open as a sort of beacon for his return.

After no more than three paces, the floorboards groaned under him, and he stopped, eyes wide and heart pounding. Another step with the same result. As if they were screaming, pleading for help. With a shuddery breath, he simply focused on one foot in front of the other (Why the hell don't they shut up? Why, after all this time...?) in front of the other in front of the...

He turned into another corridor, this one not filled with screams that shouldn't exist. It was silent; so blissfully silent that he longed for something... mundane. The sounds of household chores. Clattering of dishes; running of water; footsteps alongside his own. Maybe soft music in the background. He closed his eyes, unaware of how deeply he frowned.

Those sounds, so petty and ordinary, but so desperately needed, were things of the past. No longer to sound in this house, this godforsaken architecture. Past was past. He should not linger in it.

Lingering hurt, and hurt was something he did not want, so why, why had he come here?

He forced himself to move again. Breathe. The hallway opened to another room, a shred of light sinking into it, a thin triangle spilling over the stove top, to the hardwood floor, then back up and onto a simple table. All from a window with the curtain at an odd angle.

It was very quiet; thick layers of dust having settled everywhere with no strong wind or human disturbance to displace them.

He stepped away, back into the hall. As if it were a museum; not to be touched, to be preserved for all time.

That tiny strip of light seemed to have blinded him and he allowed himself time again to adjust his eyes. Then he continued on his... (He wasn't sure yet.)

A thousand more footsteps later, passing briefly through more museum-rooms, finding his way in the old, neglected house of the past, seeing what time (two years) had done to it, he came to another room, one that always stayed bright in his memories, so beautiful and happy.

It was well-lit (just like the memory of it), light flowing like water into it, illuminating every surface and corner and casting soft shadows. It was like a timeless photograph; the couch up against the wall, under a window. The coffee table in the center of the room. (Oddly... no chairs around it. Alone and isolated. Just like you.) A fireplace with a mantle over it. Framed pictures were there; he didn't look at them.

He stepped closer and closer and closer to the coffee table, clothed feet dragging over the cool floor with a sort of horrified and fascinated numbness, and stared.

Neatly in the bottom right corner was a slightly yellowed envelope. Very plain, nothing fancy about it.

Precise, smooth, and crisp, his name was written on it in black ink. The only thing that gave it personality was an underscore below the name, the leftmost line curling slightly into itself.

He sank to his knees, reached out with his left hand and clasped it, lifted it and a fine sheet of dust shuddered, disappearing into the air.

He sat and stared at the letters of his name, studying the inscription like it was a holy decree, every part of it, from the way the pen had flicked up slightly at the end of a letter to the slight shakiness in the beginning of the underscore was... mesmerizing.

He turned it over. Ran his fingers over the front of the envelope. Breathed. Pried a fingernail under the flap and ran it smoothly along until it reached the soft peek and with a deft flick of wrist, the envelope to the letter was opened.

Into his open palm fell a square of paper and he abandoned the envelope to the table to look at it.

It was folded up several times. He could see multiple creases as if it had been opened and reopened before finally it was placed in its paper casing. It had been fiddled with, worn slightly.

The paper itself was soft. Like velvet. Maybe because it had been handled too much.

Suddenly there was a sound; low and keening and filled with an ethereal longing and he turned sharply around, still on his knees, eyes looking back into the hallway, searching. The sound faded and died.

(Just the wind. Nothing more.)

He breathed with a tremble and looked back to the paper. Slowly unfolded the letter with utmost care and held his breath as the final fold was undone and the contents were revealed to him.

It was blank.