To Whom It May Concern, February 15th.

Dear Homeowner,

The earth is raw and damp, ribs of last year’s garden showing through the thaw. Tonight, the wind has teeth. It moves through the fence slats and along the eaves, carrying something with it.

At first I thought it was the usual, branches scraping, pipes groaning, the house adjusting its spine. But no. These sounds are shaped. It was mourning, a choir practicing grief in the dark.

From the kitchen window, I could see the disturbance in the far corner, the patch where nothing grows properly. The ground there had been cut open into a neat rectangle. The edges were precise. The soil piled beside it was dark and heavy, as if it had been turned recently.

They stood around it in a loose semicircle.

At first glance, I thought they were strangers. Their postures were familiar, but distorted by time. One was small and thin, her shoes scuffed at the toes. Another had shoulders pulled back in defiance. A third held herself with the controlled stiffness of someone accustomed to being evaluated. There were older ones too, faces creased in places mine has not yet learned.

When they turned, the resemblance was indisputable.

Each face was my own, arranged at different ages. None smiled.

They were not hysterical. Their grief was orderly. Tears moved steadily but without spectacle. No one touched the grave. No one attempted to look inside.

I went out to them.

The ground was soft underfoot. My shoes sank slightly at the edge of the opening. I looked down. There was no coffin. No body. Only depth.

“Who is it?” I had asked.

The youngest version of me studied her hands. The oldest answered.

“You,” she said.

I informed her that I was standing there. Breathing. That my heart was functioning without assistance. She did not contradict me. She only nodded toward the hollow.

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

There was a scent then, something faintly sweet beneath the raw smell of thawing earth. Not decay exactly, but the suggestion of it.

The figures did not accuse me. Their faces held no anger. Only recognition. They seemed tired in the way one becomes tired of watching something predictable unfold.

The oldest version stepped forward and extended her hand. There was soil in her palm. It was warmer than the air.

“You may leave this one empty,” she said.

After that, they began to disperse, but the grave remained open.

The house lights were off behind me. From the street, it would have appeared unoccupied.

Eventually, I returned indoors and washed my hands. The water ran clear, but dirt still stuck under my nails. The mirror reflected only the present arrangement of my face, neither younger nor older than it ought to be.

If this letter reaches you in another thaw, be advised: the voices will return. They will gather in the garden and prepare the ground.

You are not dead.

But something may be.

Determine what it is before they do.

Respectfully,

You