The Window Letters

The letters came unexpectedly, and I wasn't originally aware they were meant for me. One afternoon, my mother had been tending to her flowers -- a mixture of daisies, buttercups, and marigolds -- and when she'd finished, she'd come in with her gardening tools gripped within one gloved hand and a thin slip of paper in the other. I was making my way to the living room when she'd stopped me. "Lily, is this yours?" Had it not been for the string wound singularly around the paper -- to keep it folded, I'd supposed -- I might have considered that maybe it was a note or school worksheet. As a result of that one detail, I shook my head, and my mother's brows drooped as she made a curious sound. "It was in my garden, underneath your window."

I asked to see it, and my mother relinquished the artifact without any hesitation. There were no markings on the visible side of the paper, and the string had been fashioned into a simple bow that was easily pulled apart. What was written inside were a few simple sentences that I read aloud. "My name is Cassandra. I am very lonely. Would you like to be friends?"

"That's odd," my mother remarked. "There's no Cassandra that I know of in the neighborhood. Maybe one of the local kids got it at school and lost it on their way home. The wind probably picked it up and blew it over here."

The explanation sounded as reasonable as any, but the handwriting didn't strike me as that of a child's. The words were written in a slanted, looping cursive -- more practiced than I'd expect of anyone under the age of forty.

I threw it away without much thought. With no knowledge of a Cassandra and no indication of the intended recipient, the letter could never be returned or delivered properly.

I was the one who found the second letter -- not in the flowers, but on the outer windowsill. It was held in place this time by a rock, which was unusual in its own way for the fact there were none to be found in our yard at all. But having it there left no room for uncertainty as to whom the intended recipient of this letter was.

I slid open the window and reached through the gap to retrieve both items. The rock was large enough to fill my hand, and I set it aside on my nightstand so I could untie the string. This note was as simple as the last had been.

Did you receive my previous correspondence? I apologize for not securing it properly. Your flowers are lovely, by the way. I wouldn't be able to grow weeds were I to try.

Cassandra

The handwriting was identical to the letter before it -- long, slanting loops of cursive. For that reason -- and for the wording of the letter itself -- I imagined Cassandra being older. She was likely white-haired -- maybe with arthritis; maybe with a bad hip. I felt a pang of pity for her.

So I pulled from my nightstand drawer a mostly-unused journal and wrote a reply.

Hi, Cassandra. I'm Lily. Those are my mom's flowers, and I don't think she would trust me to even look at them for too long. I'm not sure I would make an interesting friend. I don't go out much and spend most of my time reading. But I'm sure my mom would love to have you over for coffee or tea sometime.

When I finished, I stared at my response for a moment before folding the paper and tucked it back underneath the rock outside of my window. I hesitated to close my window, contemplating the absurdity of the exchange and wondering what to tell my mother should she happen across my response. But I finally pulled the windowpane down and prepared for my school day ahead.

That evening, something else rested on my windowsill -- a book. It was a paperback with muted colors and a cover illustration reminiscent of an earlier time. A note peeked from between the pages, wrapped in the customary string.

Lily,

What a lovely name. I've never had coffee, though my father sometimes drinks it before work. I love to read, so we might become fast friends yet. Here is one of my favorite books. I hope you enjoy it, but I will warn you there are a few scandalous moments.

Cassandra

As I examined the book, I imagined what Cassandra could have possibly meant by "scandalous," and a small smile spread across my lips. The book she'd offered didn't seem particularly interesting to me. It looked outdated, and on the front there was a cowboy embracing a dark-haired woman -- a Western, I assumed without much enthusiasm. But I considered perhaps it would be more engaging that I initially judged, and decided to entertain at least a couple of chapters before making a committed decision.

Before doing so, I examined my own shelves of books. I had a modest collection, mostly fantasy and horror with a few autobiographies thrown into the mix. I finally settled on a collection of magical short stories authored by multiple people, thinking she might appreciate the variety in case some stories didn't interest her as much.

Once again, I pulled my journal from my nightstand and penned a short response to her previous letter.

Cassandra,

Thank you for the book. It's very different from what I usually read, and I'm sure the scandals you mentioned won't be too outrageous. I hope you like the book I'm sharing with you. Let me know which stories you enjoy!

Lily

For the next several days, our letters mostly referenced the reading material we'd given each other. I marveled at the sassy heroine's tenacity, and Cassandra particularly enjoyed the story about the mermaid who rescued the lost god of the ocean. The scandal of the Western novel was tame -- a few kisses exchanged between the heroine and cowboy, and a description of the cowboy's bare chest -- and so I teased my new unseen friend about her naivety, which began the more personal conversations between us.

Cassandra told me she'd never kissed anyone before, and that in fact she rarely was given permission to leave home. She was home-schooled and given a long list of chores, which left little room for the ability to make friends. I shared my struggles in school, both academic and socially. My last friend had moved to another state the year before, and since then, I'd found it easier to keep to myself.

For the first time in many months, I felt truly connected to another person. I abandoned the question of how her letters arrived at my window because it became irrelevant in light of the bond we were forming. Her favorite candy was licorice, mine was jelly beans. She'd had a cat when she was younger that her father had put down due to old age; my family had never had any pets. Neither one of us had ever heard of the other's favorite music artists, but we shared our favorite lyrics regardless.

The routine of exchanging letters became the highlight of my day. I embraced even the rain as I skipped from the driveway and through the front door of my home on one particular day. When I reached my room, I slung my backpack onto my bed and made immediately for the window. As usual, there was a note awaiting me. I pushed up my windowpane, reached through the gap, and just as I touched the rock to move it aside, I heard a sound.

A soft voice.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lily."

Where there should have been flowers below my window, there was hardwood flooring. Not a drop of water touched my outreached hand. There were a bed and rug where a fence should have separated my yard from the neighbor's. And a final look to my left revealed a girl -- somewhere around my age -- looking over her shoulder from where she'd been seated at a desk. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in thick ringlets, and a soft blue dress skimmed the middle of her calves.

Something unsettling came over me, and without responding, I pulled my hand back inside and slammed the window shut. It was then I saw her rise from her chair and approach the window. As she reached for the lip of it along her end, I flipped the lock. Cassandra moved to raise the window a few times before relenting, peering at me with a wounded expression until I could no longer stomach the sight and drew my blinds. I heard the muffled beckoning of my name several times before I finally drowned the sound out by blaring the first playlist I could find. I never opened my window again.