The House That Wrote First

The invitation had arrived on a Tuesday, in handwriting she would later swear was her own, though she had never owned ink so black. Thornwood, it said. Come before the others. There is a letter that concerns you.

She told no one where she was going. The train emptied at each stop until only she remained, and the conductor, when he came, did not ask for her ticket — only nodded, as though she had been expected for some time.

By dusk the house stood against the hill like a held breath. A single window was lit.

She climbed the steps because the steps were there, and because turning back would have meant admitting she had come at all. The door gave before she touched it, the way a sentence gives before its final word.