She was painting a flower by the window. At one point, she looked around for a scrap of paper on which to try out the shades before using it on her painting. The study table was a clutter of books and notepads. She randomly flipped through an old notebook hoping to find a loose page, and found two folded sheets of paper. A purple stick of chalk held in her hand, she flipped open the page to smear. And stopped.

A letter.

Before she could comprehend its importance, she felt an uneasy tug in the pit of her stomach.

Yet another letter?

She read it, as a worn out student might read her school text. These words held strange and unfathomable significance; she knew this by the way her insides turned cold. But she couldn’t place them, not the context, not the face.

Something in that moment thoroughly disgusted her, (or maybe it was fear).
She ripped the two sheets into four halves and tossed them in the bin.

“RII, I’m taking a page from your file!” she bellowed out to her sister who was definitely present in some part of the house. And with that clean, wordless sheet, she began her painting again.