Letter 56
June 23, 1947
Ashford Manor
My love,
There is something strange happening to the letters.
Today, I found a violet note resting atop my pillow. But it said nothing new, at least, not at first.
Then I read it again.
It mimicked something I wrote in a letter to you, days ago. Nearly word for word.
How would it know that? Unless someone read my letters. Or unless I never wrote them at all.
Or unless they’re writing me.
“The truth must be written twice, once to remember and once to forget.”
The note said that. I don’t know what it means, but it unsettled me to the bone.
Is this house echoing me back to myself? Or is someone else inside these walls, waiting for me to notice?
I feel like a reflection that’s starting to ripple. Like the person I’ve been grieving, remembering, loving—was only ever one version. And another version, a quieter one, has been watching all along.
I wish you could tell me which one is real.
But all I have are letters.
—Calliope.
This is just one room in the house. There are other doors. Other stories waiting.
→ The Velvet Letters — a secret society of fiction, mystery, and longing.
→ The Letterbox Collective — where letter writers meet, share, and grow.
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