Letters From A Dream

Aoife knew that there was absolutely no way that these could be real. She held them in her hands and searched for some clue, something that would tell her what was happening. But there was nothing. The only thing she could see was a sheet of paper, folded, covered in neat ink and placed in an ordinary envelope. Yet it could not be real.

There were two reasons for this. One, paper didn't look like that. This was too smooth, too shiny -- too new. Nowadays, everything was reycled, fuzzy and grey like something left in a fridge for too long. And two, the person who had sent them did not exist. She knew that.

So why was he writing to her? It was impossible. Completely and utterly absurd. Ludicrous, even. Aoife picked up the letters, shoved them in a drawer and left the room. There was no reason why she should mention this to her parents. They would only worry, and try to investigate: this was her secret.

But could she keep it? At ten years old, Aoife wasn't known to be the quietest of her friends -- teachers described her as an incessant chatterbox and her parents were of the same opinion. And she was already an active social networker, joining dozens of internet sites whenever she had a spare moment. It would be all too easy for it to slip out. One little mistake and it would be all over the Wavelength.

But she had to keep it. Aoife didn't know what would happen if she told someone -- anyone, it didn't matter who -- about the letters, but she knew they would stop. It was hard enough sneaking downstairs each morning before her parents so that she could get to the post, and yet she did it anyway ... because she had to have those letters.

Trying to carry on without them was out of the question.

Besides, did it really matter if it was impossible? It was happening, and Aoife believed in it. Why, then, should she question? Why, then, did it matter what was happening? Such is the faith of a ten year old. She decided to wait. If there was an answer, it would appear soon enough.

In the meantime, she would read the letters. They had been arriving once a week for almost eight months, so there was nothing to suggest that soon they would stop. Aoife looked happily at her bedroom drawers, where hundreds of sheets of paper were stored. As long as they weren't found she would be fine.

After all, with that weight of new material a thief would be rich -- but they would have to get past Aoife first. She would guard those with her life.

The End

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