#15

The man at my desk begins with a letter, reveling in something which may not end. Our typewriter sits in the corner, collecting dust, while I sit in another – trembling, grinning as he twirls with jagged expression filling the space between us. Bemusement sculpts my thoughts as I watch the veins coalesce, between his slitted eyes.

A letter opener he grips is shivering, as he tears open the note. I repress my urge to fabricate an invitation, to look over his shoulder. But I do so regardless, and he grips my fingers strangely as he reads aloud the words, without a sound.

It is from one who claims to know one of us, but only one. I panic when I don’t recognize the name, but do my best to hide it.

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