I found something weird when checking the mail one particular morning.
It was a blank postcard.
Really, I’m not kidding you.
Who just sends a blank postcard?! Makes no sense, right? *Hmph* They had the decency to write to “you”– but the from line remained blank.
I didn’t recognize their handwriting at all.
There was no stamp. No address attached. No written message. Nothing.
On the front of the postcard, printed in stock bold lettering, it said “Thinking of you!”
Well, how sweet is that. Thanks – whoever you are – thinking of you too!
But now I kind of am. And I can’t stop thinking about You . . .
Later that evening, while lounging in my recliner, I heard a knock at the front door. When I went to answer, of course no one was there. How typical, I thought. First comes a creepy postcard in the mail and then some ghost knocking at my door. What’s next?! I shrugged it off, no sense in getting spooked over nothing.
I closed the door and returned to my chair. After some time, I fell asleep.
In the dead of the night, my phone woke me. I remember groggily reaching for the little beam of light on the armrest, wondering who in their right mind would call at such an hour.
I remember wishing I hadn’t, because the caller ID said, “Thinking of you!”
I remember not answering as I threw my phone clear down the hall.
I remember that it was You who ferociously tossed it back.
I remember staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds till sunrise – too terrified to move a muscle.
Worst of all… I remember as I started thinking of You. As You began to etch your way into my mind.
Into what would become our mind.
On the next day, I burned the postcard.
I set one edge on fire with my lucky lighter and flung the cursed thing into my fireplace. I watched as the remaining edges charred from the warmth until they were completely wilted by flames. The smell of burning ink soothed my soul; relief washed over me as the blaze grew and engulfed what was left of the cardstock.
No longer was I thinking of You.
But You were still thinking of me.
I didn’t find this out until much later, while at my hometown bookstore. It’s a renovated opera house, three stories, complete with a basement. The top floor serves as residential apartments while the rest of the building, including the basement, serves as the shop. The place is also a labyrinth – and the bookshelves are the walls. There are dead ends around every corner, but the nooks and crannies lead to secret passageways filled with staircases ascending and descending to who knows where.
Looking back, I can see why it appealed so much to You.
One day, a particular book caught my eye.
It was thin, appearing to be less than 100 pages, yet its weight felt far more significant. Its spine was ash grey, adorned with crimson colored silk . . . but its cover was as blank as the postcard that I had received weeks ago.
My entire body tensed.
Against my best judgment . . . I opened the book.
I’m not sure why I was surprised to find that it too was also blank. Until I reached the end. There, scribbled in the back cover, was a single line of text, written in the same handwriting from the postcard:
There’s no place you’re not in view. Nothing that you can do. Remember… I’m always thinking of you!
I didn’t make a single sound as I dropped the book out of shock and scurried away – I can’t recall even hearing the book make a sound either as it hit the ground . . . if it ever hit the ground. My stride didn’t decline until well out the front doors.
Several hours later, I mustered the courage to return with the intention of purchasing the book, so I could burn it too – but it was gone.
According to the employees, there was no record it was ever there to begin with. I remember insisting they check again, and again . . . and again.
I remember how funny that was to You.
How your laughter grew louder each time.
How You forced the grin upon my face as I said, “thanks anyways.”
How You laughed the whole car ride home.
And how eventually, I was laughing too – how we were laughing!
It’s been months since that day. We do everything together now. We can’t wait for others to join us. All the bookstore employees know our name when we visit. “Still looking for that blank book?” they cheekily ask us.
How silly.
We know where it is.
Soon, they will too.