Written by Audrey Francis-Plante
An irritating noise in the other room—like a mouse nibbling on paper—brings me to the door. A pungent scent infiltrates my nose when I open it, and I catch my distorted reflection in a puddle of water.
Here and there, the wooden floor is wet, and crippled notes form a path to the kitchen. I take the first paper; a huge letter marks it. F.
I step forward and grab the next note. I.
The next. R.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
At the end of the hall, a lit match falls into a puddle, and I realize too late it’s no water.