It was butcher-paper that was slid under a certain door, long-stained by moisture and errant drops of blood that had turned from crimson to dead-brown over the years. The Nightengale-girl, were she not put out by the dubious form, and pick open the letter, would see the words scrawled in a shaky, forgetful hand, accompanied by a rather unflattering, sloppy picture that is meant to be her, only with lips and eyes far too big, and nose non-existent, and giant's lips pressed together in a bizarre way.
DEAR MISS GALE
YUR I'S ARE BRIGHT AS BIGS BUGS FIREWORMS FIREFLIES. SOME TIME I WILL OPEN MY MOUF AND NOT SAY STOOPID-THINGS. BUT I SAY STOOPID-THINGS BECUZ YU ARE SO PRETY AND MY HEAD GETS FUNY AND IT WANTS TO HED-BUT YOU. IF I HED-BUT YU I AM VERY VER SORY IT JUS MEENS MY HEAD IS FUNY BECUZ YUR BYOOTIFUL.
LIKE FIREFLIES. IN MY STOMACHE.
BUT I LIKE YU A HOLE LOT AND IT JUS MEENS YUR HAIR LOOKS ESPESALY NICE TO-DAY.
SINED
SECRET FREND