My hand trembled as I finished writing the last few words of the letter. I inclosed it into a white envelope, and wrote the address in blue pen.
Helena Penrod
285 West Broadway Suite 450
New York, N.y. 10013
I carried the envelope through the crisp fall air, and out to the mailbox. I slipped the envelope into the mailbox, and ran back inside my house without another word.
Two days later--
Helena opened the letter with great care. It did not say were or who it had came from, and Helena did not have any guesses. The first words of the letter took her by surprise.
Helena,
I know who you are, but you probably don't remember me, but I remembered you. Through the long years of being apart, I still remembered. I dwelled on the thought of never seeing you again.
I probably know you better than anyone else. But you just saw me as, well, I might put it as a spy. I saw you as heaven. But now I know that you are anything but heaven.
As strange as it seams, I still love you. I love you more than anything else in the world. I always will.
If you know who this is, then please write back. If you don't, than I don't want to hear from you. Expect another letter.
Love,
Nobody
Helena didn't get it.
She read the letter over and over again. Who could it be, she thought. Who would have send her this letter?
