Chapter Text
From the first time you saw the box, something drew you to it; you couldn't leave it there. It was the perfect antique, the kind of thing you only find once in a thousand trips to the thrift store, and even before you bought it, you knew that something inside was waiting for you, just you and no one else among the hundreds of people who passed by without noticing it.
When you put it on the counter, the cashier looked at you as if you were some kind of strange creature. Someday I'd like to reveal to you on her mind, she thought you might be crazy for wanting to buy a box about to be thrown away with who knows what junk inside, but that confession can wait until the day you come to me.
On your way home, you hugged your purchase as if you were a child holding his most precious toy, not knowing that this box was really going to change your life. When you got home, you took off your shoes in one swift movement and threw yourself on the living room floor so you could open your purchase.
It didn't take you long to notice that under the ribbon that held the box closed, some watercolor paintings were decorating the lid. A landscape with some clouds under which stretched a field full of what looked like wheat ears. “How beautiful!” you thought.
With the delicacy of your fingers, you undid the knot and took a moment to try to predict what was inside your purchase: “Maybe it has abandoned jewelry, or old documents, hopefully some photos, or someone's collection of postcards.”
You held your breath as you used to do before opening your birthday presents and carefully lifted the lid of the box from one corner. Inside were a bunch of envelopes: “Letters!” you exclaimed excitedly.
One surprise after another hit you, and I must confess that I was also eagerly awaiting your reaction when you discovered that the first letter was addressed to you. Your wide-eyed face and half-smile did not disappoint me, it was the least I could expect from you.
“To: whoever buys this box,” you read this inscription aloud, filling the walls of your lonely home with the echo of your voice.
You turned the envelope every which way, looking for any other details besides the fine calligraphy on the back, but all you found were stains on the paper left by the passage of time. If you wanted to know more, you would have to read what was inside.
Without wasting a moment, you took the sheet out of the envelope and unfolded it carefully. This was going to be the beginning of something that would change your life, and you didn't know it. For obvious reasons, I couldn't tell you either. I hope you can forgive me. You can imagine the limitations I'm under, all that nonsense about “Not interfering with the destiny of humans.”
“Dear person who found my letters,” was the phrase that opened the epistle, and was all it took to hook you.
September 30, 1988
Dear person who found my letters:
From this moment on, a deadly curse has fallen upon you.
I'm just kidding. My previous words are a complete lie, just the result of my terrible sense of humor coming to the surface. I hope they didn't scare you. I'm actually writing this letter to ask you for a favor. Naturally, you can refuse to grant the wishes of a complete stranger, but first, I ask you to finish reading my reasons.
The letters accompanying this one are my most precious possessions. While some people write diaries, I wrote what you have before your eyes, piles of letters that never made it to the post office. Throughout my life, the words on these pages were my method of venting and the treasure chest of my most precious memories.
Now you must be wondering, why has what I call my most valuable possession ended up on the shelves of a thrift store? This is where the favor I wish to ask of you comes in. I donated some of my belongings, along with this box, for the sole purpose of getting someone to find my letters and do what I dare not do.
Please burn my letters.
I won't stop you from reading them because I know it's natural for your curiosity to be piqued by my ridiculous request. All I implore you is to burn my letters after reading them. I have tried countless times to get rid of them, but they are so tied to me that I am incapable of killing a piece of my own existence.
The dates written on the envelopes will easily guide you through the chronology in which my letters were written, and I want to believe that by the end of them, you will know me so well that we will be kind of friends, making it impossible for you to refuse my request. I suppose you also agree that you cannot deny a favor to a friend.
I have nothing more to say, no prior warnings or recommendations. Not only that, but I am entirely in your hands. I have already made my only request known to you. Now all that remains is for me to wish you a wonderful life and say goodbye with an imaginary hug.
Na Jaemin.
You looked up at the ceiling, trying to find something to focus on; it was a common habit of yours when you weren’t quite sure what to do. The situation before you was completely unexpected. You’d bought that box on a whim, never planned to find what it contained, and now you had to decide what to do: would you carry out a stranger’s wishes?
Before you could think carefully, you were already searching for the envelope with the oldest date, and after rummaging through the bottom of the box, you finally found it. A yellowed piece of paper dated August 25, 1984.
Na Jaemin’s first letter.