Luckily, the box is not heavy. I wonder what's inside.

Maybe a bomb? You hear a lot of bomb stories on the news nowadays.

With some reluctance, I slice through the tape holding the cardboard box closed. Carefull. 

No bomb. No threat. No knife.

Just paper.

Inside, there are around twenty letters, neatly folded in envelopes.

I open the first one without hesitation.

"Hey, surprise. You haven't buried me deep enough. Nice try, though."

My hand shakes and the letter drops to the floor. My heart is racing.

I bend to pick it up, ignoring the pain spreading through my body. I can’t keep reading. Maybe I don’t want to know what comes next. I am an old lady, it does not matter.

I try to focus on my breath. Think about tea. Card games. Anything but this.

The letter continues. He escaped. I shouldn’t be afraid, he says—he’s not here for revenge.

He talks about his childhood. His pain.

Why should that matter now? Does he want sympathy?

I open another letter. And another.

I get to know him better than I ever knew my own daughter.

Diabetes. Orphaned at six. Regretful. He says he’s sorry for how he treated her.

I scoff. 

You can’t hit a girl, try to pawn her into prostitution, and then ask for forgiveness.

With every word I read, I become even more convinced he should have died.