Your letter dropped through the letter box last Tuesday, sandwiched between a brochure for a new boiler and a postcard from Spain, meant for him next door. I recognised the handwriting immediately. I haven’t opened it yet. It’s been sitting on the mantelpiece, leaning against that old clock your mother gave us as a wedding present. I can’t work out why you’ve written to me after all these years. I’m also intrigued as to how you did it, considering I killed you five years ago and buried you under the patio. Maybe I’ll open it tomorrow, see what you want.
Day 10 of my Drabble Project (100 x 100 word stories in the month of October).