Letters spilled over the floor. Dozens of them, written on the same yellowed paper as the one I held in my hand. I scooped them back into the box and took it with me when I left.
This isn't right. None of it. I can't say why, but it's all so wrong.
This is a story that I've been working on since about seventh grade. It's a kind of thriller, I guess, but more than that, it's based on relationship, truth, and perception. This is the introduction to four pieces that I will be publishing over the next few weeks.