Chapter 25 - A Letter Unopened
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The mail delivery at the river house was usually a mundane affair—utility bills, architectural magazines, and charity newsletters.
On a quiet Tuesday afternoon, Noah walked back from the mailbox at the end of the driveway, flipping through the stack of envelopes. He stopped suddenly on the front porch, his footsteps halting on the wooden planks.
I was reading a book in the living room and noticed his sudden stillness through the window. I set the book down and walked out to the porch.
"Everything alright?" I asked.
Noah was staring at a standard, white institutional envelope. The return address bore the unmistakable stamp of a federal correctional facility. The name printed in tiny, dot-matrix letters was Nathan Mercer.
My chest tightened. It had been years since Nathan had attempted contact.
"He wrote," Noah said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
I stepped closer, keeping my distance but making my presence known.
"You don't have to open it, Noah," I said steadily. "You don't owe him an audience."
Noah looked at the envelope. He didn't look scared. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely indifferent.
"I know," Noah said.
He didn't tear it open. He didn't hold it up to the light to try and see the words inside. He simply turned around, walked into the house, and headed straight for the heavy-duty paper shredder I kept in the home office.
The machine whirred to life with a sharp, mechanical hum.
Noah fed the unopened envelope directly into the blades. We stood together in silence, watching the paper turn into tiny, meaningless white ribbons, falling into the plastic bin below.
When the machine stopped, Noah turned it off and looked at me.
"Do you want to order pizza for dinner?" he asked casually.
May you like
"Pizza sounds perfect," I replied, exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
The ghost had tried to reach out from the dark, but the boy he had once terrified was gone. In his place stood a man who knew that some doors were meant to stay permanently closed.
