Footsteps sounded from behind me and then to the side and in front. I thought I was starting to go crazy, hearing things in stereo, but then a young woman sprung out in from of me. It was so sudden that she stopped me in my tracks. She was wearing a thick, black floor-length cloak, odd for today’s weather, which shrouded her features in darkness, and gave her a costume of mystery. All that I could see were her lips, accentuated by the blood-red lipstick on them.
I leant forward, eagerly trying to discover the identity of this stranger, but she shoved a letter into my hands and daintily scampered off before I could have a look.
Bemused, I looked down at the letter she had given me; it was enveloped nicely and my name was inked on the front in extremely flowing and Gothic handwriting.
That was when I started to become suspicious.
I waited, nervously, until I got into my house and had securely locked the old, wooden front door (and shut all the windows), before actually ripping open the tacky paper envelope.
The letter inside floated down to the floor. It contained the same flowing script as the envelope but, of course, that wasn’t unusual. Just from flicking my eyes over the page, I could see that the writer had been in a hurry and therefore hadn’t written much.
What was conveyed to me in the letter was brief and frank, but also eerily touching.