Cristine | Reyes [better]

It arrived on a Tuesday, slipped under the library’s heavy oak door. No stamp, no return address. Just a single sheet of cream-colored paper, folded into thirds. The handwriting was cramped, urgent, as if the writer had been running out of time.

—A Friend

The library’s basement had been locked for fifteen years. Officially, it was due to “structural concerns.” Unofficially, everyone knew the story: a former janitor had died down there in the winter of ’89, and the board had decided it was easier to seal the door than to deal with the rumors of footsteps and the smell of old tobacco. cristine reyes