The Letting Go”
You wake up to find a letter on your kitchen table. It’s written in your handwriting, dated one year in the future. It begins:
The Letter
I don’t remember writing it.
Still, the loops and slants are unmistakably mine—my handwriting, only steadier. More deliberate.
The envelope sat alone on the kitchen table, the name “Jack” scrawled across it like a dare. My name. Dated exactly one year from today. I opened it with the same dread I feel when I check my bank account or hear a voicemail that starts with “We need to talk.”
Today is the day you finally let go…
Then: smears. Water damage? Or maybe tears. My own?
Below the blurred ink, one word stood out, written in thick, permanent black:
RUN.
I stared at it, willing more to appear.
That’s when the doorbell rang.
Not a knock. Not a ding-dong. The bell. The one I hadn’t heard since Miranda died.
Outside the window, a black sedan idled. Tinted windows. Engine purring like it had all the time in the world.
My hand moved before my mind could. I grabbed the letter, my keys, and ran. Out the back door. Across the field. Into the woods behind the house.
I didn’t look back.
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