I never meant to spy on her. But when I saw that little girl with pigtails, slipping letters into an abandoned mailbox, my curiosity got the better of me. What I discovered would force me to face the ghosts I’d been running from for two years.
I woke up to the sound of nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of this old house settling into its foundation. My eyes drifted to the empty pillow beside me, still perfectly fluffed from when I made the bed yesterday.
Two years ago, my mornings were filled with the scent of brewing coffee, the rustle of newspaper pages turning, and Sarah’s sleepy smile when she’d catch me staring at her. Now, it’s just me and the silence that follows me from room to room like an unwanted shadow. “Another thrilling day in paradise,” I muttered to the empty kitchen as I poured myself a cup of coffee.
My life had become painfully predictable after Sarah died. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. I’d perfected the art of existing without living.
On top of that, my freelance editing job enabled me to stay at home for weeks without speaking to anyone beyond the grocery store cashier. Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was my sister.
Again. This was her third call this week. I watched it ring until it stopped.
I’ll call her back, I told myself. Just like I’d told myself last week. And the week before that.
One evening, as I collected my mail, I noticed something unusual mixed in with the standard envelopes. A small, unstamped envelope with childish handwriting that read simply, To Dad. I stood on my porch, staring at the envelope.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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