The crinkled envelope, bearing a familiar, spidery hand, landed on Amelia's doormat with a dull thud. Her breath hitched. She picked it up gingerly, as if it might bite. The postmark was old, impossibly old, and her heart began to hammer against her ribs. Years. It had been years since she'd seen that handwriting, since she'd heard that voice. A tremor ran through her, a cold ripple that began at her toes and worked its way up, prickling her skin. She closed the blinds, not trusting the sunlight anymore.
The letter was brief, contrite, filled with hollow regrets. “I was young,” it stated, the words practically radiating a false glow of innocence. Amelia felt a tightening in her chest. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the wind outside, sounded like a threat. She reread the words, searching for the hidden meaning, the veiled insincerity she knew must be present.
She paced. The letter sat on the kitchen table, a small, paper bomb. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, assessed, judged. She went to the window, peering out between the slats, convinced someone was out there, observing her reaction. A neighbor waved, smiled. Amelia quickly ducked back, a knot of unease twisting in her gut. She had to destroy it. She had to make it disappear.