No return address, no signature – only words pressed into paper with the weight of something unseen. It arrived one morning like an echo of a dream, slipped beneath the door as if the night itself had chosen me as its messenger. The ink was uneven, trembling, but the sentences carried a gravity that felt older than language itself.
Reading it was like standing before a mirror that reflected not my face, but my shadow.
The letter spoke not of love, nor hatred, but of power – power that moves without being touched, that breathes without lungs, that governs without a crown. It whispered that the greatest mysteries are never solved, only carried, like stones inside the heart.
And though it promised nothing, it left behind the taste of something forgotten, as if the words had been written not to reveal, but to conceal.
When I folded the paper again, the room seemed heavier, as though silence had taken shape.
I could not tell if the letter belonged to me, or if I now belonged to it.
All I knew was that something unnamed had entered my life, not to grant me strength, but to remind me of the beauty in being powerless – like a seedless fruit, like a book without an ending, whose value lies not in what it contains, but in what it withholds.
