The letter was eleven pages.
Not pages like the rest of the book — loose ones, folded into the binding, the paper different, thicker, the kind that had been made to last rather than to be read easily. The folds had gone soft at the creases from being opened and refolded enough times that the paper had stopped resisting and just held whatever shape it was most recently given. Someone had read this before her. More than once. She could feel it in the give of the folds, the way the paper fell open without encouragement at page four, and at page eight, and at the last page — the places someone had returned to.
She didn't think about who.
She read.
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*If you're reading this, you came looking. That means you already know something is wrong with you. I need you to understand that wrong is
