The Letter That Arrived Before It Was Written

It was during the winter of 1897 when strange letters started appearing in our town; letters which none of us ever remembered writing. These letters had the correct seals and were delivered at the proper addresses. However, what was unusual about these letters was the fact that the content of these letters contained new words which were never been written before. At the beginning, people started considering these letters strange but funny objects, such as when my mother received a letter from her sister admitting that she had an old grudge against my mother. These letters were very intriguing objects because they seemed to have neither a writer nor any reason to exist.

These letters soon became a source of great intrigue.

Everybody in the town received multiple letters, but nobody talked about the matter openly; however, everybody was looking forward to receiving more of the letters.

Talks between people started to be cautious, as if there was something to hide and could not be expressed by words. What frightened in letters sent to all people was not their honesty, but the certainty that they contained; the letters merely stated something without any punishment or doubt.

Mine was swiped during a chilly morning under my door noiselessly, and at once I realized whose writing belonged to those letters. It bothered me even more than the letter itself.

I didn't open my letter right away.

It was hidden in various places during the two following days – once in the drawer and then under my pillow. I wanted to find out whether the further distance could change its truth. And I was sure it was a trick that could be played by taking my palm print and using it so skillfully as to fool me. But how could somebody know about something I had never told?

And only after three nights, I got it out of where I hid it and unfolded it.

There was no greeting, no signature. There was just one line of text.

"You will not send this letter that you are going to send, and you will regret it until you die." I've read it several times, looking for the meaning to change, but it never did. The message stayed the same, as if it were all done already.

I have thought of writing a letter. Though I've pondered the contents of this letter many times, I have never done anything more than think about how to begin. Tonight, while sitting at my writing desk with paper and pencil, I did nothing for what felt like quite a long time. Then, without any deliberate effort on my part, I folded a sheet of blank paper, placed it into an envelope, and put it away. Perhaps I understand the letters better now.

The letters are sent not to deliver the truth, but to confirm its existence.