Start by apologising without knowing what for. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.

I’m sorry. For the envelopes. Or the way I looked at them. It’s not the postmark, it’s the slant of the ink. Too sharp. Like it was meant to cut something. Or maybe I just... forget how people stop. I saw you holding the stack. Why didn’t you open them? You always open everything. Even the ones that smell like static. Did you?

Rain? Fine. Then why was the paper dry? I touched the corner. Bone dry. And that handwriting… it wasn’t just slant. It was familiar. Too familiar. Like I’d written it myself while asleep. You’re sure it wasn’t your coffee cup ring? You always leave those marks. Or did you move it? Stop looking at me like that. I’m not lying about the ink. It smelled like iron. Like old pennies.

Sleep? You’re dodging the penmanship. That ‘r’ loops left. Like mine. Except I don’t have lefty loops. Or do I? I keep forgetting what I did with the keys. The red ones. Not the silver. The rain smell… okay, maybe it was damp. But the paper was crisp. Like it just came out of the oven. Your kitchen’s cold, Rafe. You know that. So where was it warmed?

Ovens. Right. Because my kitchen has none. Just that one hot plate that trips the breaker if I breathe near it. But the counter… I remember touching it. It felt warm. Or maybe that’s just my thumb. You moved the keys? They were in the bowl this morning. I put them there. To keep them safe. From the rain. Not that there was rain. Just the smell. God, Rafe, stop staring. Did you read the letter? Please say no.

Toast. Of course. Crunchy. Like the silence. I didn’t hold it. Not really. I just... kept it from falling. If it had fallen, the words would have scattered. Who writes to no one, Rafe? That’s the part that sticks. The address line. It was blank. But the return address... it was my building. The laundromat downstairs. Why would they send me mail? I don’t use the mailbox. Unless... unless you did. Did you pocket it? For me? Or just to watch me panic?

I’m not scaring you. I’m just… looking at the return address. It’s fuzzy. Like it got wet. Or sweaty. Whose? I keep thinking it’s yours. But you were at the machines. Bouncing quarters. The hum is loud in there. Did you hear anything else? A whisper? No, that’s stupid. I’m just tired. My eyes burn. From the static. Not the rain. The static. It’s on the walls now. Can’t you see it?

Folding sheets. Bleach. I hate that smell. It burns. You’re looking at my back, not the walls. Good. Then you didn’t see the writing crawl. The ‘r’ uncoiled. Like a snake. I blinked. It was back. Normal. Crisp. You say it’s static. I say it’s eyes. Pale ones. Watching from the dryer lint trap. You didn’t look there? You never look there. That’s how they get in. Through the fluff. Don’t turn around. Yet.

Tuesday. Right. Because I didn’t clean it. I... forgot. Again. The dust is grey. Not pale. I was right, then. About the color. But not the eyes. Okay. I’m going. To the bedroom. The one with the draft. You’re shaking. Did you hear the dryer? It stopped early. Too early. You didn’t check the seal. Why didn’t you check the seal, Rafe?

Quiet. God, it’s so quiet now. That’s worse. You pulled the plug? Why? The clothes were still warm. I could smell the detergent. Or maybe it was just you. You’re shaking. Did you hear it? Before the plug? A scratch. Behind the dryer. I thought it was mice. But mice don’t write. In slant. With iron ink. You didn’t see the shadow? It moved. Against the wall. I’m going to bed. Don’t follow me. Not yet.

Cold. Of course. I forgot about the heater. It’s dead. Just like the dryer. You say mice don’t write. But the paper… it had texture. Like fur. Rubbed off on my thumb. I wiped it on the counter. You didn’t see that? You were too busy drinking. Water’s warm. From the tap? No, it’s cold. Like the rain smell. Wait. Did you touch the envelope? Your fingers were red. From the cold. Or from holding something sharp?

Rust. Pipes. Yes, of course. The building’s old. It bleeds. I should have known. I’m drinking. The water tastes like metal. Coincidence? Probably. But the envelope… it was crisp. Not flimsy. Like cardstock. And the ‘r’. Left loop. I don’t loop left. Unless I’m tired. Or unless it’s not my handwriting. Did you check the return address again? Really look? I’m going to lie down. Don’t come in. Unless the pipes start screaming. Then maybe.

911. Right. Because the dispatcher loves rust. I’m lying down. The ceiling is tilting. Or maybe the bed is. You didn’t check the seal. Why didn’t you check the seal, Rafe? The dryer stopped early. Too early. You pulled the plug. Why? To keep it quiet. But it was quiet before. That’s the problem. It was too quiet. And the paper… it wasn’t crisp. It was soft. Like skin. I’m closing my eyes. Don’t wake me. Unless the pipes scream. Then call me. Not 911. Me.

Screaming. Finally. Something real. Your voice cracks on the last syllable. Not from fear. From anger. Or guilt. Did you hear it? The machine didn’t stop. It just… paused. Like breathing. You pulled the plug to hide the sound. To hide what it was printing. Skin? Please. It was paper. Heavy stock. I know paper. I print on it. Every day. For the job I hate. Go to sleep, Rafe. Or don’t. I’ll be watching. Through the crack in the door.

Counting tiles. Peaceful. More than me. I’m sitting on the floor. Back against the wall. The crack is narrow. Just a sliver of your shadow. You’re right about the light. Darkness has texture. Rougher. Like the envelope. I keep thinking it’s here. In my pocket. Heavy. Like a stone. Or a tooth. Did you find the other one? The silver key. Not the red. The silver one that doesn’t fit anything. I lost it. Or you took it. Stop counting. It’s louder than the pipes.