I translated a letter no one wrote

I’m walking through a house made of footnotes, each page whispering something just out of reach. The walls are lined with pens—some held by hands that never learned to write, others still gripping the air like they’re about to start. I find a letter in a language I’ve never seen, but I know it by heart. I translate it not into words, but into silence: the space between breaths, the way light falls on a coffee stain at 7 a.m. When I finish, the paper turns to ash. Not because it was wrong—but because it was true.