Dana Vespoli Dear Direct

You don’t know me. But I’ve been watching the way you leave your back door unlocked. The way you hum off-key when you water the geraniums. The way you say “dear” to the stray cat even though you pretend you haven’t named it.

The fog had already started to seep through the keyhole. dana vespoli dear

Then she turned the paper over. On the back, just one line: You don’t know me

Dana turned the envelope over, thumb tracing the wax seal—crimson, unmarked, as if it had been pressed by a ring she didn’t recognize. She lived alone now, in the small house by the salt marsh where the fog rolled in each evening like a held breath. The mail came at four. By 4:03, she had the letter open and the kitchen light on, even though the sun was still out. The way you say “dear” to the stray

Look under the bed.