Tao stares at the box in front of him with a spectrum of feelings; confusion, anxiety, excitement – he can’t quite decide. The box is a plain wooden box with cheap hinges, of the kind the working class bought to store half-valued items in. A little bit darkened and worn, but the lid squealed loudly when he tried to open it earlier, so little thought has been put into maintenance for it, Tao concludes. It is rather small, just too little to be called a chest, and easily fits under his arm.

Not that he wants to carry it around.

That would be useless.

Tao knows perfectly well what is in the box. At first glance, it appears to be a bunch of papers of various sizes and hand writings. It’s not untrue, but Tao recognizes it as something more.

The papers are letters.

All letters Tao didn’t read – letters Tao didn’t even know existed before last week. They are not made specifically for Tao, nor are they even stored for him. In fact, him being in possession of them at this point could almost be seen as arbitrary. Tao has very little to do with the letters, to be quite truthful.

Yet here they are.

And he still looks at them with anticipation before reading, because he does feel a connection to the letters.

He knows the authors of the letters, and he knows the ones they were intended for.

Well, had known them, at any rate.

The previous owner of the letters had shown up at his door and claimed to be a childhood friend of Tao, from a town he left when he was a teenager. It was true, Tao remembered them – the friends he had grown up with and dreaded the most to leave. He had not heard from them in – how many years? Twenty, nearly thirty?

And then suddenly a box full of correspondence between them was into his hand.

‘They were your friends too,’ the previous owner had said with a dejected look. ‘You deserve to know what happened to them since you moved away. Most importantly, though, I can’t bear look at these letters anymore, but I don’t want to destroy them. It feels somewhat of an insult to their memories, and to those left behind. You can store them, burn them – whatever you deem best. You don’t have to read them, but I feel better knowing they ended up with a friend.’

‘You say this as if it’s a great tragedy,’ Tao said with a frown. ‘I hope it’s not.’

‘Maybe not,’ his old friend shrugged, and Tao recognized the gesture despite the years. ‘But nevertheless, they explain everything rather well. I don’t mean to sully the images you have of them, but I think you should have the opportunity to know what become of them.’

‘Okay,’ replied Tao slowly and glanced at the box in his arms. He had pondered how his first friends turned out, what happened to them when they grew up, where they were now… But this was not how he had imagined it. ‘I’ll read the letters.’

And read them, he would. But over the past few days, he had spent a lot more time actually looking at the box and glancing at the paper than taking them out to read. What would he find out when reading – did he even want to know?

So he had hesitated, until now. Now he stares at the box again, but not out of confliction, but expectance. He will open the box and read them – his curiosity demands this of him.

Tao sits in a chair and puts the box on his lap. He stares at it for a second longer before opening it. The bits of paper are still there; most old and crisp, but perfectly readable. He grabs a handful and flicks through them quickly. Most are of the approximate same size and handwriting, though some are written on different papers with other hands. There are short letters, barely even notices, and there are long ones that span over several pages, if Tao understands the bunch correctly. Most of the letters are dated, and he quickly discerns that they are put in chronological order, with the oldest ones first. This pleases Tao, as he is fond of order and sense, and it is easier for him to read this way.

He picks out the first letter and puts the box down on the floor next to his chair, taking his time and closing the lid, getting comfortable in the chair, making sure he has enough light…

Is he only postponing this again?

He thinks about what his friend had said- about not wanting to sully Tao’s naïve childhood images of them. Surely, it would not be something that incriminating in these letters? His friends had never been bad people, and he doubted even the harshness of years could change them so fundamentally. 

But it did sound like their fortunes had been most unfriendly – would it sadden Tao to read these? Would he only become depressed by it? They were his friends, he still considers them to be his friends, even if he has not spoken to them in years. There is something about childhood memories that are impossible to taint, and this applies to friendships too, according to Tao.

He admits to himself, he almost dreads what he will find, and is he invading the privacy of people he didn’t speak to for a long time? After all, these letters were written in confidentiality – is what he assumes, at least.

Then again, he had been given them by someone trusted by their common friends and who had probably read all these up and down more times than Tao could count – he was given the letters to read them.

It is inevitable that he should read them, Tao knows, and he will. He is just postponing this, but for what? He wonders again if he is scared. Not that his reading will affect what once happened to his friends, but the knowledge…

He shakes his head.

He will read the letters now, no further ado.

With that resolution, Tao lets his eyes roam the first line of the first letter in the chain of those that will reveal the fate of his friends…