Its nails whisper through the edge of the envelope with a sigh like the rustling of leaves. The paper is old. Stale. It crinkles. The words weep, black on yellowing blotches. A mockery of the tears they were meant to produce.
But the letter never made it to the addressee. Instead it floated through hands of wind until it ended up here, one amongst thousands, and all of them waiting, desperate to embed themselves within the heart of the intended and make their eyes bleed as the letters do now.
The edges of the paper have begun to blacken as the words scream outwards in an attempt to be heard. But no one will come and claim them. There is no one to ease the pain of the emotions trapped within the walls of white.
So It was born. Born of the longing of unread letters. It…
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