They’re not letters. Not really.
They’re warnings. Or encouragement. Or leftovers from someone else’s spiral.
Filed and Sealed in wax.
Dropped where only the right kind of person will bother to look.
Some are petty.
Some are kind.
Some were clearly written by a raccoon in emotional distress.
If you find one, you’ll know.
It might be tucked in your jacket pocket.
Or behind a ketchup packet.
Or somewhere worse.
Filed in mischief c by the ghost in the break room.
She still hasn’t said her name.
Little Ghost Post 