Letters to No One

I found them hidden beneath the floorboard of the third step on my stairwell. I'm not sure if there was a significance to this placement of the letters. They looked old -- the envelopes were covered in dust and looked as though they would fall apart the moment I picked them up. The addresses on the envelopes were written in delicate cursive handwriting, so I presumed a woman wrote each correspondence. I tried to decipher the illegible script on the top left corner to have clarity about who the author was. To my dismay, I was unable. My eyes were growing old, and I had yet to buy a new pair of reading glasses from the market up the street. 

Later on, a few hours after discovering these beautifully handwritten notes, I decided I needed to open one. I knew the risk of destroying such neatly bound and precious materials, but could not go on without knowing who wrote these mysterious letters. I picked at the twine, which bound the envelopes together and kept the papers from flying away, and managed to untie the rigid knot at the top. The binding fell away with flourish, and as numerous envelopes fell this way and that, I randomly selected one. My hands were unsteady, yet with each deep breath I took, I ripped through the tape securing a letter which held the truth. 

The letter and envelope held hands one last time before departing from each other. I unfolded the paper and grew anxious with each passing second. Soon jumbled letters were visible, which in turn formed words, and those words created intricate and decadent sentences that I ate up and read again and again. 

But there was an issue with this letter--no salutations were made. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I prayed that when I looked down at the paper, names would suddenly appear. I wished for answers and received my worst fear. These were letters of anonymity. Letters to No One. 

It made no sense, yet intrigued me. I decided to try out my magic trick once again and closed my eyes, wishing, praying for answers. Again I stared at the worn-down, brown stationary and it blankly stared back at me. How were these letters to make sense without context? I grabbed for another letter in the astoundingly large pile of envelopes and cringed. I was upending history. I was destroying artifacts, yet I lost all care. My questions were left unanswered and that made me even more curious. 

Soon a pile of opened communication was scattered about my tiring form. With every missive read, a spoon full of hope was scooped from my body. There was only one letter left, which I had purposely saved for last. It was newer than the rest and lacked the wear and tear of its brothers and sisters. I hesitated and fidgeted as I stared down at the disgusting, yet intriguing note. 

A single line, typed in block letters screamed at me:

With every letter passed, every envelope opened, every message relayed, with every heart touched, my letters to No One became letters to you.