The handwriting was confusingly familiar. It had the looping gs his mother had favoured, signing her name Margaret with a proud flourish on floral headed paper. But then it had the slanted ts his father had dashed out with an impatient hand, written in margins.
The mismatch made him uncomfortable. It made him feel watched. Hunted. He left the letter on the windowsill, leaving it to tell him when he should open it.
January 18th. What a small date for something that ended up being so huge.
He burned it, the smoke catching in his throat, his bloodshot eyes dark.
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