Chapter Text
The front door eased open with a menacing creak. I shut my eyes tight as the night breeze washed over me, that even in the warmth of early spring seemed to bite at me like a ghost, daring to possess me. But I would not let it win. Not this time. Just remember to breathe, I reminded myself—in for four, hold for four, out for four—as I put my weight onto that first front step.
In complete contrast to the fenced-in backyard, the front was an overgrown wreck. It all blurred into the surrounding darkness as I shuffled down the narrow remains of the pathway in my slippers, nearing the edge of the yard where a pileup of mail had collected by a dense hedge that might at one point have contained a mailbox, now shrouded beneath several layers of matted green.
Slowly, I knelt to pick it up. Shaky fingers curled around the edges of the rain-soaked paper stack when, out of the bleary corners of my vision, something white slid past my hand, stopping me dead in my tracks. It inspired such a state of confusion that I nearly forgot I was outside at all.
“Oh,” I muttered, a breathy gasp of a word from a mouth that briefly forgot it could even speak. Then with all the precision of a heart surgeon on their first day of work, the thumbnail-sized envelope was picked up and placed with the rest of the stack.
“Um, thank you?” It wasn’t meant to sound like a question, but it slipped out that way regardless, and I grimaced at the grating sound of my own terribly unused voice. Likewise, this was met with no response. Although, as I prepared to head back inside, I could’ve sworn I saw a miniature thumbs-up from somewhere within the leafy curtains of that hedge.
The front door was shut behind my back harshly and with haste, leaning against it for a moment as I continued to time each little breath; counting four, four, four... until all the leftover tingles had left my body and my pulse had returned to its usual sluggish pace.
The letter. Right. They sent me a letter.
My eyes blinked open, immediately going to search around the deceptively empty house for a tool of some kind. A knife seemed way too much for the task, but then, so did the kitchen scissors. I huffed under my breath as I continued to rifle through various drawers and cabinets, taking care to close each one softly despite the slow buildup of desperation adding a sharp edge to my movements. There really weren’t many options available, when I thought about it. There smaller sewing scissors somewhere in the house, but I hadn’t touched the things in years, let alone remembered where they were.
In lack of a better idea, I reached for the first even possibly useful tool that came to mind, and swiftly took a seat at the small kitchen table to begin putting it to use.
A toothpick, markedly longer than the envelope itself, was nudged carefully under the flap and shuffled from side-to-side at increasingly longer stretches until finally coming free entirely. My previously narrowed eyes and hunched-over posture sprang back open with an air of immense celebration that was felt only by myself in the dim light of the kitchen; but it was felt all the same, and it took everything in me not to squeal with excitement as I shook the contents of it into an open palm.
Because, despite knowing likely what it was for, and who exactly it was from, in no way was I expecting… this.
The only word I could make out at first without the use of a magnfier was “invitation” written in big—well, relatively big—letters at the top of the paper square. Moving to stand did nothing to tear my eyes away from the gorgeously detailed design of this incredibly thoughtful gesture. It simply had to be appreciated in full.
Blindly tugging open a nearby cabinet with the use of my freehand, a glass cup was swiftly utilized as a sort of makeshift magnifying glass, pressing my eye to the back of it after placing both it and the letter down on the countertop. There it was in all of its lovely handwritten glory; an invitation to a start-of-summer festival, followed up by a date and an address. Three days from now, and in my very own backyard.
At the same time I was suddenly made so wildly aware of my surroundings, I also didn’t mind one bit if anyone had been awake that late to see the immense smile that broke out across my face then. What I did care about someone else witnessing was what I did next, however, as I gave a quick glance-over of the general area, more so searching for a particular someone who seemed to enjoy sneaking up on me in moments like these.
Coming up empty, I made a quick pivot for the bedroom, trying my best to quiet my already slipper-enforced footsteps even in the wake of a heart that wanted to beat out of my chest, and in all the best ways. It was a nice break from the usual anxiety-fueled reasons, at least. Getting down onto my knees once again, I was left one-handedly fumbling underneath the bed until I felt my fingers graze over something smooth and metallic. If that wasn’t difficult enough, managing to also open the padlock with a single hard was a feat in and of itself. But, I noted proudly to myself, if I could open a letter with a toothpick, then what couldn’t I do?
The sticker-coated lid lifted with little fanfare, revealing a treasure trove inside it that to anyone else may have looked like a typical box of sentimental trinkets or mini keepsakes. But this was so much more than that. To me, it was more akin to an evidence locker for some ongoing case, a corkboard with red string being pieced together one item, one scrap, one gift at a time.
And at the center of it all, was a journal.
They preferred their secrecy, I understood that well and even said as much several times—but my fear of getting someone’s name or favorite color wrong was so, so much greater.
Sorry, Lawrence.
After double and triple checking my surroundings, just to be extra safe, I placed the generous invitation inside the box and shut the lid until I was certain I heard the lock click back into place. Then I tucked it back under the bed and returned to the ever-present task of finding something to busy myself with, made different only by the lingering smile on my face and the absent fidgeting while I worked.
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I’d known about them ever since I moved in, to tell the truth. And, while we’re being honest, I’m pretty sure I frustrated the hell out of them at first. Which was fair. I mean, how exactly were you supposed to find the time to borrow when the human living there never left the house, not even to go and collect the damn mail?
So, I guess in some ways it was bound to happen eventually. Even still, those first couple of years were kept in a state of peaceful anonymity. One that I’d be lying to say I didn’t enjoy to some degree. I would often leave things like food out on the counters just to watch it mysteriously vanish overnight, alongside various other items such as paper or batteries or led... and in return?
When things would inevitably get bad, with me, for however long it lasted; it brought me a certain comfort to know that someone, or something at the very least, was benefitting from my being around. Call it self indulgent, or narcissistic, or whatever else my mind had tried to chastise me with throughout the whole ordeal. Whatever our odd arrangement was at the time, it had worked to keep me going. More so than they’ll likely ever know.
Keeping the noise down wasn’t too much of a hassle, either. Texting instead of calling, listening to music or watching shows only with headphones on, and of course, walking a bit softer around the house after sundown.
I never knew how or when exactly, but one of them must’ve figured out that I knew after a year or two of this dance. And that person told another person, who told another person, until the news had travelled up and up the metaphorical grapevine to their... well, leader, I’d presumed.
He introduced himself as Lawrence, standing right on top of that same kitchen table.
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