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.
I've got another prompt. It's pretty simple, and I hope you'll take the time to write your own version, as that's the point of it.