The Letter
I didn't think much about the envelope at first. No return address, just my name scrawled in a handwriting I hadn't seen in eleven years. My father's eleven years are dead, gone, buried. And yet here it was, sitting on the counter of my rented room in Willowcreek, staring at me like a question I wasn't ready to answer.
I had come here for a holiday, hoping to enjoy the quiet streets, the local football matches on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, and forget the relentless spreadsheets and deadlines waiting for me back in the city. But it seemed the town had other plans.
I slipped the envelope into my coat pocket and tried to ignore it while walking back from the pitch. The sun was low, spilling orange light across the cobblestone streets. My sneakers scuffed lightly against the uneven stones. That was when I first noticed them: three men in long coats, standing in a narrow alleyway, talking in hushed tones. One of them laughed—a sound that didn't belong in such a quiet place.
Curiosity got the better of me. I paused behind a stack of crates, peering through the gap. They were talking about the town—my town now, even though I barely knew it. And about people. People being watched, controlled… terrified.
I froze when one of them mentioned the mayor's name. That wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not to me.
I had no idea then that those few minutes of eavesdropping would change everything. That same night, the shadows in Willowcreek would feel alive. That same night, my father's old words, scribbled on faded papers I barely remembered, came rushing back: "Not all shadows hide what you think."
And as I clutched the small pendant around my neck—my mother's face peeking through the glass—I knew the quiet holiday I'd imagined was over.