The room greeted us with a choking cloud of dust, as if no one had dared disturb it in centuries.
"ACCK! So dusty," I coughed, waving my hands wildly in front of my face like I was trying to swat away invisible bats. My eyes watered. My lungs protested. This was not how romance novels described breaking into a man's heart—or his home.
Ahead of us, seated stiffly in the dim light, was the silhouette of a man slouched in a chair.
Raven leaned in close, whispering, "You… you don't think he's dead, right?"
"If he is, we're screwed," I muttered.
"W-Why?"
"Imagine it—dying before fulfilling your undying love? That's the perfect recipe for a vengeful spirit. And who do you think he'll haunt first?"
Raven blinked at me.
I jabbed a finger toward us. "Us."
A shriek tore out of him. "Noooo!!!"
Before I could stop him, Raven rushed forward like a man on a mission to cleanse his soul. He grabbed Mr. Witson, dragged him out of the chair, and laid him flat on the floor.
"What are you—?!" I started, but it was too late.
Raven began performing frantic, desperate CPR with all the energy of a panicking intern in a low-budget medical drama.
Mr. Witson, who had not even been unconscious to begin with, gasped. His eyes shifted from wide confusion to something ethereal—like he'd just experienced spiritual ascension.
He reached up with trembling fingers and gently caressed Raven's cheek, whispering with holy reverence, "A touch… from the heavens…"
Raven froze.
Then, like an instinctive animal reacting to mortal danger, he slapped Mr. Witson across the face.
SMACK!
Mr. Witson went limp on the spot.
Raven stared at his hand in horror. "I—I didn't mean to!"
I crouched beside them, peering at Witson's now thoroughly unconscious form. His expression was suspiciously serene, like a man who'd just seen heaven—or at least a very attractive version of it.
"Well," I sighed, "he technically died happy."
I jabbed a lazy thumbs-up in Raven's direction. "Good job. Thanks to you, he probably won't come back as a vengeful ghost."
Raven didn't respond. His body sagged like a deflated balloon as he slid down against the wall, staring blankly at nothing, completely still. He looked like his soul had just clocked out early and left a note that read 'Good luck, buddy.'
I leaned over and gave his cheek a few light slaps. "Hey. Earth to Raven. Come on, drama queen."
He blinked awake with a jolt, pupils unfocused. "What—what happened?"
"You fell asleep, that's what," I said with a shrug.
Raven squinted at me like he didn't quite buy it but nodded anyway, too exhausted to argue.
We both turned toward Mr. Witson's desk. A neat stack of handwritten pages sat proudly in the center, radiating tragic sincerity. I picked up the top sheet, read the first sentence, and instantly knew—this was the love letter. The one Witson had poured his tortured heart into. The one meant for Raven.
I handed it over. "Here. Your unfinished love letter from Mr. Witson."
Raven took it like I'd just passed him a live grenade. He scanned the first few lines and recoiled in horror. "He could've turned this into a book..."
"More like a dictionary. With infinite volumes." I fanned the pages dramatically, letting them flap like the wings of a very emotional bird.
I pushed the letter into Raven's reluctant hands. "Come on, Raven. You've got to read it sooner or later."
But he shoved it right back like I'd tried to hand him a rotten fish. "I don't want to read it," he whispered, eyes wide. "It's scary…"
"It's a love letter, not a cursed one," I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Fine. Since you won't do it, I will."
I unfolded the letter dramatically, preparing to mock it, only for a sudden chill to crawl down my spine the moment I laid eyes on the first sentence. "Brrr… Forget inventing—Witson should've been a horror scriptwriter. He'd make millions traumatizing people."
Raven, drawn by a mix of curiosity and sheer dread, leaned over to sneak a peek. Whether it was a love letter or a forbidden tome of ancient madness, we were about to find out.
To my love,
I sit beneath the old tree. Our tree. It knows your name, even if I do not. It creaks it to me in the wind when I've been quiet long enough. I chose this tree for its silence… but now it speaks. It speaks only of you.
I have watched you for so long that I cannot remember if I ever had a life outside your passing shadow. My face is lost to me—I could not pick it from a mirror—but yours, yours, I could carve blindfolded into stone. I see you in the knots of bark, in the movement of clouds. Your reflection follows me in puddles like a ghost that cannot rest. You are always there. Always.
I have drawn you every day. My sketchbook has devoured entire forests in your honor. Dozens of pages for each hour I am permitted to glimpse you. You are rendered in charcoal, in blood, in soot, in tears. Sometimes you smile. Sometimes you weep. Once I drew your corpse, just to understand the borders of my love. I had to know if it would survive you.
It did.
You once dropped a handkerchief—white, soft, kissed with the letter 'R.' I still taste it. I keep it pressed inside my book, wrapped in cloth so its scent does not escape. It smells like lavender and something older… something yours. I sleep with it on my chest, above my heart, to keep your breath inside me.
The tree and I are no longer separate things. Its limbs twitch when you near. Its bark splits in my dreams and whispers your footfalls. We reach for you together now, me with eyes, it with roots. It told me that you belong here. That we must make a place for you beneath. Deeper than roots. Deeper than rot.
When you pass, the world shudders. I feel it in my ribs, in my skull, in the wet meat of my thoughts. Even the insects go still. You alter the air. You warp the light.
There are times I wonder if you are real, or if I created you. Perhaps I drew you into existence. Perhaps the world gave you to me as a test. If that is true, I have passed. I would kill a thousand men to keep the shape of your silhouette untouched.
You never see me. But I see everything.
Once, I imagined your death, and it crushed my lungs with such force I vomited into the soil. The tree drank it. It liked the taste.
But even in death, I will not leave you. If I fall before you ever turn your eyes to me, do not grieve. I am already in the ground. I am already here. My eyes have taken root beneath the soil. My nails clutch the roots. When you walk past, the earth strains to follow. The worms murmur your name through my bones.
I wait. I will always wait. I am not a man anymore. I am a presence. I am a hunger with a heartbeat.
I will be here until the tree falls—or until you do.
Forever,
Mr. Witson
(Your Ever-Bound Servant. The One Who Watches. The One Who Will Not Sleep.)
Then we turned the page—and saw something even creepier.
To the muse of my sleepless nights,
You don't know me.
You never turned your head when I passed. You never noticed the way I stopped breathing when you entered a room. But I've seen you. Every day. Every hour fate permitted.
I have never spoken to you. I wouldn't dare. To speak would shatter the illusion—my precious, perfect illusion of you.
I do not know your name, so I gave you one. Raven.
It suits you. The way your hair falls. The stillness in your eyes. You glide through this grey world like a shadow dressed in poetry.
I have filled fourteen sketchbooks with you. Each page a devotion, each line a silent scream.
Your eyes—page 47.
Your hands—pages 122 to 134.
Your mouth—drawn fifty-two times. Smiling. Frowning. Screaming. Sleeping.
Yes, I've imagined it all.
Sometimes, I draw us together. I draw you holding my hand. Sitting beside me. Smiling like you know me. Sometimes, I draw you crying. I don't know why I do that. Maybe because it makes me feel needed.
You sit on the third bench in the garden at 2:47 p.m. every Thursday. You pluck invisible threads from your skirt. You chew on your thumbnail when no one's watching. But I always watch.
From windows. Behind trees. Reflected in puddles.
You leave fingerprints on your notebook. I've memorized the pattern. I once picked up the wrapper you dropped. I still have it. I keep it between the pages of my sketchbook like a sacred relic.
You looked at me once. Only once. I don't think you meant to.
But I haven't slept properly since. That moment loops in my brain like a music box that plays a single haunting note.
I've written this letter a thousand times in my head.
I won't give it to you. Not yet. Maybe never. It would scare you, wouldn't it?
They always get scared when they realize they're being loved properly.
But someday you'll see the drawings.
You'll understand what you are to me.
And you'll realize… you were never alone.
Yours from every corner of every room,
Witson
"Well, he definitely nailed the name part," I thought to myself—equal parts sarcastic, creeped out, and vaguely impressed, though mostly just disturbed. A shiver tiptoed down my spine.