Chapter 1
I feel as though there is no point to my rest; the recurrence of my agitations and restlessness is putting a strain on my body and soul. I take the blame; my constant obsession with solving this case is overbearing, yet I cannot stop. I persist in wanting to uncover more. Even through endless dead ends, there remains an answer waiting to be discovered. It's been 7 years since he went vacant.
Suddenly, a letter arrived without warning, slipped through the door slot with a sharp metallic snap that echoed down the narrow hall. In early London mornings, sound carried differently- muted by fog, by brick, by the weight of the city still half-asleep. The envelope struck the floorboards and skidded slightly before coming to rest alone near the radiator. I did not move at first. The postman was already gone. There was no knock, no lingering presence- just sudden certainty that something had entered my flat uninvited. The envelope itself was plain. No colour, no return address. My name was typed, but not cleanly. One letter sat lower than the rest, betraying a hand that had not been steady. London's postmark sat in the corner, early morning, the date barely legible. I knew the look of official letters, of bills, of routine correspondence. There was none of them. When I picked it up, it felt heavier than it should have, the paper stiff and deliberate. I turned it once in my hands, then twice. Whatever was inside had taken its time reaching me–sorted, stamped, passed from one indifferent hand to another–until it found its way here, to this quiet room, to me.
I held it longer than necessary, listening to the city wake beyond the walls, aware that the moment before opening it was the last moment things would remain unchanged.
Letter 1
1981
Dear Ezra,
Do you remember the time in Year 9 when I was so distraught that I couldn't get a single word out to express my feelings? And you suggested that I write a letter to formulate my thoughts. You specifically instructed me to write whenever I felt even a hint of negativity. Years later, I am finally writing to you, sharing my thoughts, feelings, and the truth.
I killed my father,
Not out of coldness nor hatred—it was out of insanity. I needed a glimpse of freedom, a taste of peace and relief. I desperately wanted to know how it felt and why it was potent to my desires. Why I craved it so much to the extent of killing my father for it. Unfortunately, my desires for freedom weren't bestowed upon me—instead, I've been hit once again with shackles and fear. I'm in the same emotional state he projected onto me. I am still in the midst of his unbearable torment. I'm confident that I killed him, so why do I still feel this way? Why do I still see him?
You will finally discover the underlying truth.
–Gresill.
I started shaking, uncontrollably. I couldn't decide whether to be surprised, shocked, hysterical, or to cry. My heart feels heavy, burdened with everything I had kept buried. I don't know whether to hold my breath or breathe, because in this very moment, I am unaware of the circumstances that I'm about to uncover.