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 this time.
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.
Written by Mike Jackson
Mike Jackson lives in the UK and enjoys writing short tales, especially Drabbles. Some of his offerings can be found on his blog ‘Stories In Your Pocket’