The Messenger from Beyond

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As the last tram rattled past the river and the city shrank into its nighttime clicks and creaks, it happened: a scratching at the window, gentle as chalk on porcelain. I lifted my head from the desk, and the candle cast a trembling halo of light on the glass. There it sat, motionless as an icon, yet full of determination—a butterfly, the size of two open hands, with deep blue-black wings and a dull sheen, the tips as if smeared with soot. And in the center, instead of an insect's head, rested a tiny, perfect human skull. I stood up and opened the window. The frost cracked, and the messenger slipped in without moving its wings, as if carried not by the wind but by thought. A sweet, metallic scent spread through the room—like old silver maturing in a drawer full of letters. "You're late," I said, though I didn't know why I was speaking, as if I'd been expecting it forever. It responded by raising its wings. Faint lines flickered on the insides, as if writing lay hidden there. The skull made no sound, but its silent mouth formed syllables that made the candle flame dance. The air vibrated, and in that vibration, meaning took shape. A greeting, the vibrations said. A sentence that couldn't be spoken as long as breath and name were still bound. I nodded. "From whom?" With such a slow, almost implausible movement, the messenger descended. The ribbed chest slid over the edge of the table like a miniature spine. In the dusty trail of its wings, letters appeared, grainy but clear: Recha. Aunt Recha—who had held my childhood together with peppermint tea and stories—had died three months ago. No will, almost no trace, only the feeling that there was something she couldn't carry across the border. I pressed my palm against the edge of the table until it hurt. "What does she want?" The messenger moved its wings again. A thin row of words formed on the wood: Unfinished letter. Under the windowsill. Read it aloud. I removed the windowsill; it stuck, as if a nail still held the years together. Beneath it lay a thin folder, bound with yellowed string. I cut it with the candle knife, and the room smelled of cellar and lavender. The first page bore my handwriting—no, Recha's, but so familiar that it felt as if she had practiced it on my fingers. I read: of mistakes to be secretly celebrated, of a meeting by the river, of a word she had never wanted to say to me: guilt. She wrote that she had hidden something that wasn't hers, and the burden had bent my shoulders without me knowing why.