I’m sorry. I’m just not sure if this is going to work. It seems really silly, in perspective.
But I suppose it’s not nothing.
I should start at the beginning. Hello, Anya, if that is your name- if you are still there, somehow reading this letter.
I found your letter under a loose floorboard in the house I live in. I don’t know how it got there, freshly printed and neatly folded. I don’t know a lot of things about this house.
I should tell you that this is, strictly speaking, not my house. I’m not sure whose house this is. I don’t think this is anyone’s house, anymore.
Your house does not sound at all like this one. For one, your house sounds… complete. This house is not complete. Maybe it is lonely, but I think it is sick. It is missing parts of the walls and floors. The wallpaper has been fully stripped off, perhaps by others who seem to have used this house as a meeting place. It is not a whole house.
I am lucky enough to have some counters, a workbench that was too heavy to move, some carpets and worn furniture left by the others before me, and a functional bathroom. I brought a tent with me, an old cooler I found by the side of a road, and some clothes. I tried to make a stool to sit on with the workbench and some scrap wood, but it didn’t turn out very well.
I don’t think this house is quite a possessive as yours, or as strange. Sometimes I think the walls have changed color. Is it just me?
I have written this on the back of the paper your letter was printed on, and will put it back where I found it. I don’t know if this will work, but you sound like you might know something about houses.
Maybe I’m crazy. I’m writing a letter to a person who might not exist and sending it through a hole in the floorboards.
It’s all I have.