Letters from the Roof

A child writes to the empty world beyond the last city.

At three seventeen, the city held its breath. It was an old habit, from when its people still knew how to sleep. Mira stood by the library window and watched the streetlights turn gold. On the desk, an envelope waited. Inside was a dream addressed to no one.

She had spent seven years cataloguing what the world had forgotten. Tonight, for the first time, she decided to open it.