The second to the left.
Boxes and crates made the page one spring morning. Young couples and old couples. People with dogs and carrying carpets. A chair. Trucks and busses and couples. With the writing done, she felt a stirring. The stacks were speaking to her and she could not understand. Her paper hands were spotted now. Spotted with ink and paper and care and keeping. Care and keeping, but she was missing something in the stacks. She began with the first, as high as herself. Reaching up, she read of hair-strokes and paper hands. She read off a linen nightgown and coarse hair. She read of her life. But she couldn’t understand the murmuring of the stacks.
Page after page was consumed but still, they murmured. An errant turn knocked the oldest of the stack over onto the floor, a carpet of pages littering the room. She looked at the floor, the desk and the window. The murmuring stopped when she retrieved two notes from the desk drawer. One in a flowing masculine hand, the other a likeness of a dog.
They will want bread and turkey soon, she thought. But first, note for them to let them know I will be coming out of myself. Ink on paper from a paper hand and coarse hair falling into the envelope. One sealed with her practiced hand. The other letter was blank. .
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