I was seventeen and alone for a week while my family traveled. The quiet was overwhelming, so I filled my days with work and distractions. On the seventh day, a postcard arrived from my mother saying they’d return two days late. It comforted me, and I carried it everywhere.
When my family came back, they denied ever sending it. The card was real, but the message wasn’t. That night, I couldn’t sleep, unsettled not by fear—but by how safe it had made me feel.
Years later, I see it not as something threatening, but as a strange comfort—something that gave me peace when I needed it most, even if I never understood where it came from.