Doors

[Micah's handwriting is neat and narrow, cramped together with tall upstrokes]

Strange journals should really come in the mail with instructions included.

To: notyouringenue@gmail.com
From: notthatinsolent@gmail.com
Subject: As promised

Do let me know your thoughts.

---

The dressing room was empty and quiet, though Raoul swore he could hear the echo of her voice ringing in the room long after the girl had seemingly disappeared. Dropping down onto the seat in front of her vanity, fingers laced together as he rested his elbows upon the top of the vanity, gazing into the mirror, yellowed and aged around the edges. Many things changed with the passage of the years, appearances, interests, talents, but some things stayed the same, and there was so very much about Christine that had remained the same.

Still a dreamer, still floating and drifting where Raoul wondered if he should tie his scarf around her ankle to keep her from floating off somewhere he could no longer reach. And it seemed that those fears were well founded given how the girl had drifted that night, not even a quarter hour after he had parted to ready their carriage for the evening.

The Angel of Music. Again with the blasted angel, pretty words spun by her father to soothe the fears and anxieties of a young girl, pretty words that clung years later with a tenacity that even Raoul admired. Pretty and dangerous, as it seemed that someone had fulfilled that role, someone Raoul did not know, whose intentions he did not trust. "You must understand that there are no angels, Little Lotte," Raoul murmured to himself as he pushed himself up from his seat, moving swiftly from her dressing room. Angels were fantasy, something to read about, to wonder about, but this was reality, and Raoul would play the part of her tether if he must.

[Simon's hand is scratchy and uneven.]

Anybody done anything stupid enough to get hurt yet because of this fucking thing?

[Elias' letters are almost cryptically antique, schoolyard cursive with high block type capitals, put together in deep black ink. It looks like it takes almost no effort, but his phrases have balance and strange appeal.]

I was hoping it was something I ate. No one has come up with a cure yet?