The Letter by Kate Whitehead

The steps to the house were worn down with the years of trampling feet but still grand like the smooth white pillars in front of the conservatory. I was juvenile and an aspiring author so pounced on any new adventure as a catalyst to the beginning of something. That was all I owned; a lot of openings which lay around for a while then became crumpled balls before disappearing under the detritus of my everyday life. This unexpected excursion was a break from my daily routine which revolved around looking for two elusive things simultaneously: work and long term accommodation. It was beginning to seem that neither of them would ever be available to me which left me in a Read More