Everyday, I write a letter.
I grab a sheet of paper, white and crisp. As I grasp it, I can see a crease appear, marring the blank surface. The wind dances in the room, sending chills down my spine. It’s as cold as death in here! I carry the paper to my desk and set it down next to my multitude of pens. Before I start writing, I shut the window, trying not to glance down at the scene below. The wind won’t blow here anymore. Next, I go to the hearth and rekindle the fire, basking the room in an orange glow and warming me up considerably.
I head back to my desk. I look over my array of writing instruments, trying to decide what to use. Pens, pencils, brushes, and quills are all arranged neatly in rows, all of different colors and sizes. I select a swan feather quill, as white as the page I am about to write on. It is soft and smooth, just like the feel of clay. The feather lightly tickles my hand and I smile, just a little bit.
Next, I look over at the pots of ink. Most of the jars holding the ink are only half-full, the only indication that they have been used. Otherwise, they are pristine and clean, just like the day they were bought. Some are small, some are slightly larger than normal. And they come in all colors of the rainbow and everything in between. I glance at the hues of red, green, and blue, before finally selecting the darkest shade of black I can find. It looks like the glossy coat of a raven.
Slowly, I dip the end of my quill into the jar. Quickly, the ink soaks into it, turning the shaft dark. Expertly taking just enough ink, I take out the quill. A single, fat drop of ink rolls of the tip and lands in the jar, creating a slight ripple. The tip glistens in the light of the fire. For the briefest of moments, I close my eyes.
It is time.
Swiftly, while the ink is still wet, I set the tip down at the very top of the page. I do not hesitate. With dizzying speed, my hand guides the quill, forming letters, words. Every few words, I pause to dip the end of my quill back into liquid night before continuing. The scratching of my quill is the only other sound in the room besides the crackling of the fire.
I do not pause to read what I have written. Cursive, flowing words just blossom onto the page. With grace only attained through years of practice, I write. One word turns into a sentence, one sentence into a paragraph, one paragraph into a full page. In a matter of minutes, the paper is full with every bit of my soul.
Only then do I stop to read what I have written. I look back on what I have done, searching for mistakes, and to see if I have said all I want to say. I check to see if every last detail is perfect. Though I spot mistakes, and though I still have the quill in my hand, I write nothing. The paper isn’t meant to be changed any more than it already has been. In the heat of the fire, I let the ink dry, preserving the words. I take an envelope and seal the letter within. I jot down the address and put a stamp on the corner.
Then, I just sit there in silence, thinking, remembering. After I am done, I take the envelope. The paper feels rough in my hands, a sharp contrast to the feather quill in hand mere moments ago. Making sure that the seal is secure, I stand. One final deep breath. Turning around, I take a few steps-
-and throw the letter into the fire. The flames crackle delightedly and rise to feast on their tender morsel. The dry paper burns away to ashes in seconds. Wisps of smoke rise and disappear. As I watch the dancing tongues of flame, I have but one thought in mind. A thought that comforts my aching hand, my empty soul. I smile.
The dead don’t read.
