On a dark night in April, the wind blew several letters under my door. They flew around me the way a petticoat swallows a dancing girl. Like bats.

They weren’t meant to go to me. All but one (unmarked) were addressed to Salazar Castle. Which doesn’t exist. And the letters themselves seemed wrong. Most of them were soaked through with a shimmering black…void. I couldn’t place it. It might have been the same material as your glittering iris.

But it’s no inconvenience to me. I’ve salvaged the notes and arranged them in what I believe is their intended order, for the sake of preservation. And, who knows, maybe there’s a woman out there who knows a better way to live.