Letter 52

June 18, 1947
Ashford Manor

It came back.

The bird I thought had gone for good, the one that tapped at the glass and vanished when I blinked returned today.

It was just after dawn. I’d gone into the nursery, to sit in the chair near the window. I don’t know why. I suppose it comforts me, though the room is no longer warm.

And then I heard it: a rustle, then a soft thump. I looked up.

There it was, inside.

The little black bird with the faint ivory band around its neck. It must have come through the chimney, or perhaps the broken panel in the attic. I still haven’t climbed up to check.

It wasn’t flying. Its wing looked bent, wrong. It hopped across the floor in strange little fits, dragging the wing behind it. And then it settled beneath the cot.

I thought it had died.

But when I knelt down, it turned its head toward me. Wide eyes. Alert. Almost watchful.

I didn’t touch it. I don’t know why. Something held me in place. It didn’t seem frightened. It seemed… like it had come back for something.

And then I noticed the feathers. Scattered in a line across the rug. Five of them perfectly aligned, like someone had laid them down on purpose.

I keep thinking it means something. Some small arrangement of grief or memory.

I don’t believe in omens. But this house makes you believe things you never used to.

I’m watching it now. It hasn’t moved.

But it’s watching me, too.

—Calliope.

If you’re enjoying the letters and would like to show some love, here’s a few ways:

• Share the letters with a friend

• Leave a comment, your reflections are always welcome

• Help fuel the story (and the writer behind it) with a coffee.