From this point on, each time a short story is posted, it will be labeled as such using the segment title above...
"The Letter Keeper"
I found a letter on my doorstep fifty-three minutes ago. I only opened my door because there was a draft coming from the hallway, and I wanted to make sure the building door leading up to the apartments had been closed properly. Sometimes, if one didn't use the correct finesse, the door would stick. Thereby, letting in unsavory people and, of course, the cold weather.
I did not recognize the handwriting. The words were small and cramped on the page, as if the person who wrote it felt as if it was the last sheet of paper on the planet. At first, I felt odd reading the letter, because it was not addressed to me, and going through someone else's mail is definitely some kind of offense. I didn't like breaking the rules, and I didn't like impeding on another person's business. But there was just something so desperate about the first few words which I couldn't help but read.
In my defense, it was left on my doorstep. So, theoretically, it was meant for me. So why shouldn't I have read it? But still, I had to ask the question, if I had accidentally left this note on the wrong doorstep would I want the unintended person to read it? After all, handwritten letters seem so private. Nobody takes the time to write like that anymore. Just type an email and it's delivered instantaneously. No post office, no waiting. Gratification at a moment's notice. But does that mean we also say less in those little notes?
I pondered that question as I fingered the crumpled paper. I tried to remember the last time I had received a real letter in the mail or otherwise. Not a bill, not a bank statement, but an honest-to-goodness letter. Nothing came to mind.
I knew the letter could not have been for me. No one I knew would have ever left it at my door, especially when I was home. It must have been for one of my neighbors. Of which, there were three to pick from. An elderly widow, a young Chinese couple, and a lonely man whose fondness for playing piano kept me up most nights.
Since the letter was in English, one could assume it had not been intended for the couple. I was fairly certain they only spoke a few words of English. The letter was much too complex for a non fluent speaker. That left the man and the widow. I had never seen another soul enter or leave the man's apartment. Which led me to believe he could not have been the recipient. He simply knew no one except Mozart, Beethoven and Bach. And they were dead.
So, it had to be for the widow. An odd letter for such a person, but my skills in deduction left me with no other options. Yes, I would give it to her. Because it could not have been for me.
Besides, there was no return address. No name written at the bottom. I had no way of finding the person who had left the letter. I could only deliver it.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It ticked along as it always did. The widow would be asleep at such a time of the night. I could always give it to her in the morning.
But the letter had been specific. It needed to be read by a certain time of a certain day by a certain person. And, as I had previously concluded, that person was not me. The requirements had not yet been met.
I would wake the old woman and give her the letter. Hopefully, she was the one it was meant for.
I had seven minutes to deliver it.
I looked back at the clock. Six minutes.
In front of her door, I knocked softly, then harder. After a moment, the door eased open. The elderly woman peeked out, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose.
I smiled warmly and held up the letter. She carefully took it from my hands and began to read. Her eyes poured over the words, absorbing each carefully crafted phrase. It felt odd to watch someone read a letter such as the one she held. But I couldn't leave until I knew it was in the right hands.
After she finished, her small gray eyes found mine. "Thank you for finding me."
She folded up the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her pale pink bath robe.
The door creaked open further, her voice flooding the hallway. "Did you read it?" she asked.
I was uncertain as to what I should say. I guess the truth was written across my face.
"It makes it easier, doesn't it? If you read it, then you can understand it. Do you understand now?" Her eyes studied me.
I nodded. For I had read her letter, and understood what it meant.
A smile stretched across her wrinkled face. "Next time it comes, you will keep it."
An expression that could only have meant, I will? crept across my face.
"Yes, dear. Read each one carefully, with love. Always," she started to close her door,"he likes to leave the letters at eleven o'clock. Not a minute earlier, not a minute later. And don't think you'll ever see him. You might hear him like the wind rustling the leaves, but you'll never see him."
I nodded and watched her close the door. Then I thought about what she had said. If she had never seen the person who left the letters, how did she know he was male? But, then the question seemed unimportant, because that detail paled in comparison to the letter itself. What the letter meant, what it said was all that mattered.
The next time I would read the letter left on my doorstep it would be intended for me. I would be the letter keeper.
An hour ago, I found an inconsequential crumpled piece of paper on my doorstep written in small cramped cursive.
The first line read:
In one hour's time the world will end, unless you have faith in this message.
aha!
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