Today has been quiet. So still. I have very little to do here, and when I have done the jobs they ask of me, I feel the emptiness closing in on me on all sides. Its in the yellow lights and the cleen floors, an emptiness that is more than emptiness, it is nothingness. A place that is so sour with man made things has no real life in it so I think of the time we spent together. On the grass and in the feelds thats how we were best. I cant see the grass here, or any trees.

Heather blinked. Without reading further, she plucked another, older letter from its envelope, and recognized the same messy handwriting immediately.

You discribe these places so well. That you would still do this for me after all these years just tells me that I was always rite about you. Your joining us at the commune changed my life.

‘Commune?’

Another, to find the same. All of these letters were from the same person. And her mother appeared to have replied to them. The handwriting was not her dad’s, she knew that straight away; he had only ever written in neat, block capitals, a consequence of his construction work and a need to write legible receipts. Who was this person with such strong feelings about her mother?

‘You never mentioned a pen friend, Mum.’ The words sounded odd and flat in the warm air of the attic, as though they too were covered in dust. Because underneath her surprise, and even her slight amusement, a cold feeling was settling in Heather’s gut. ‘I don’t think I ever heard you talk about writing letters at all.’

Its so noisey here at night. Do you remember how quiet it would be in the feelds, under the stars? When we were in the woods. Like we were the only people in the world even though we werent. The other people who came and lived under the stars, they didnt feel it like we did Colleen.

Heather scanned to the bottom of the page and squinted at the name there. A Michael? Next to the scratchy signature was a green tick stamp, and then printed next to it in a different pen and handwriting were the words Reave and Approved. Reave, thought Heather. Michael Reave.

She frowned. The name felt oddly familiar, although she couldn’t have said why. Heather stood up, putting the letters back in the biscuit tin, and took them with her down the ladder. Back in the kitchen, she spent some time making a quick sandwich and a pot of very strong coffee.