I found the box again.
The one buried in the cellar's false wall.
The one he never expected me to touch.
Inside?
Not reports. Not tapes.
Letters.
Handwritten. Sealed. Labeled by name.
Amelia.
Claire.
Juliette.
Elise.
Viola.
And one at the very bottom.
> Arianne.
(Still breathing)
---
I opened the first.
"To the first — the dreamer"
> "You believed everything I said. That made you perfect. But your faith killed you."
Then the second.
"To the second — the fighter"
> "You screamed at me. Hit me. Told me to rot. But still you came back each night. You wanted to believe. That made me weak."
The third.
"To the third — the wife"
> "You played the part well. Until you couldn't anymore. You smiled through everything, even when your eyes begged me to stop. You died in your sleep. Or maybe you gave up. I still don't know."
The fourth.
"To the fourth — the ghost"
> "You never stayed long enough for me to love you. Maybe you were smarter than the rest."
The fifth.
"To the fifth — the flame"
> "You burned everything you touched, including me. I didn't mourn you. But I still remember the scent of your hair."
---
I opened mine last.
The one labeled "Still breathing."
And what was inside?
Blank paper.
No words.
No signature.
Just silence.
Because he hadn't written it yet.
Because he never expected I'd live long enough to read it.
---
I left them all on the dinner table.
No message. No threat.
Just... a quiet invitation to feel.
---
He didn't show up that night.
He didn't eat.
He didn't sleep.
But in the morning, I found him in the garden.
Sitting.
Crying.
Holding the letter meant for me.
Still blank.
> "I don't know what to write," he whispered.
> "Then write what hurts," I said.
> "Everything hurts."
> "Good," I replied. "That means it's finally real."