elizabeth's hatbox

one;

noah,

i explored the house today, and the subdivision, but there's not much to explore. it's small.

although if you'd been around, i'm pretty sure it would seem huge.

i made a new friend, elizabeth. but she's dead, like you are. she used to live in my very room about eight months ago, but her death caused her family to move out of the suburb. seems familiar, doesn't it?

elizabeth died of heartbreak. out there, people laugh at stories like this. but elizabeth's is a rare tale, and very, very true indeed. a certain fiendish casanova had broken her heart, in the cruelest way imaginable, and, unable to handle the pain, elizabeth took herself. she took her life.

how do i know all this? i discovered elizabeth's hatbox yesterday. it's quaint, victorian, the softest shade of pink. it's the one possession of hers her family left behind. mistakenly, i suppose, but it's there nonetheless. in it were letters, written in the most picturesque handwriting, written to everyone she loved, but never posted.

the surprising thing is, noah, one of the letters was addressed to someone you and i are familiar with. guess who?

that's right, you.