The Red Jellies

I didn’t sleep well last night. My back ached as I rolled out of bed, the stiffness lingering like a stubborn echo. It was a Sunday morning in December, and I had the day off. As I rubbed my eyes, the soft sounds of birds blended with the gentle whisper of drizzling clouds outside my window. It felt like the rain had just ended.

Still half-asleep, I made my way to the kitchen, craving the comfort of my favorite red jelly soup. I opened the fridge and found only two jellies left. I took one, popped it into a mug, and poured hot water over it. Stirring slowly, I stepped outside and lowered myself onto the damp stone near the stairs. The drizzle still lingered, soft and rhythmic, as though the sky hadn’t quite decided whether to let go or hold back. The cold air wrapped around me, not harsh, just present—like a familiar silence.

I took a sip of the soup. It was warm, thin, and nearly tasteless. But somehow, in that moment, it felt just right—like comfort in a cup, like something that didn’t need to impress me to be enough.

As I sat there, my eyes drifted to the old mailbox at the edge of the compound wall. It hadn’t held anything in months—maybe years. But now, a torn envelope peeked out, its paper damp and curling from the rain. Curious, I set the soup aside and walked over.

It was addressed to me. No return name, just my initials scribbled in unfamiliar handwriting. Inside was a single sheet, handwritten, the ink smudged but still legible:

"I hope you still live here. I know it's been too long. I don't expect you to write back, but I found something that belongs to you. If you want it, meet me by the old railway tracks, Sunday, before dusk."

There was no signature. Just that. Just the past slipping quietly through a crack in the present.

I looked around—at the drizzle, the quiet trees, the empty road—and for a brief moment, the day no longer felt so ordinary. The soup still steamed on the stairs. The letter trembled slightly in my hand, not from the wind, but from something stirring just beneath the skin.

My house stood quietly on its own, surrounded by empty land and distant trees. No neighbors. No movement. Only the silence and the occasional call of a bird in the distance. As time passed, I reminded myself to pick up some groceries. I headed to the bathroom to freshen up. That’s when I noticed the tap wasn’t working properly. I added it to my mental list of things to fix.

Wearing a red jacket and black track pants, I locked the door behind me and started walking to the market. The road was wet and quiet, the kind of silence that makes every small sound feel magnified. I watched my step carefully—this area was known for the odd snake or two. As I turned the corner past a patch of overgrown grass, a sharp flutter of wings caught my eye. A small bird—red and speckled—was trapped under the paw of a stray cat, yelping and biting at it.

I shouted and ran near it. The cat froze, gave me a look of mild annoyance, then darted off down the lane. The bird lay still for a moment, stunned. I stepped closer, knelt down, and gently scooped it up in my hands. Its chest heaved rapidly, heart racing like a distant drumbeat. I looked around, spotted a low bush by the roadside, and placed it gently beneath the leaves, away from open ground. It blinked once, feathers damp, then nestled into the shade. I waited a few seconds, watching, before turning back to the road. It took me about thirty minutes to reach the market. I picked up some beetroots, carrots, and a packet of milk. Then, I made a quick stop at the hardware store to buy a new water tap and a drilling machine.

Back home, I reached for the last red jelly and dropped it into a mug. As the water boiled, I turned on the music system—Ilayaraja’s songs filled the air like a memory—and I walked into the storeroom and caught hold of Radhika, who was hanging upside down lifelessly. I placed her head carefully between two iron holders, each standing firm on either side. Her beautiful face sat still between two iron holders, snugly fitted like it had always belonged there. I crouched beside it, the hum of the drilling machine alive in my hands, the air thick with the faint scent of her skin and metal. Slowly, I pressed the spinning bit into her soft skin on her forehead. It resisted for a second, then gave way with a soft crack, letting the drill glide two inches deep into her hard forehead, creating a hole.

Her blood rushed forward in a sudden burst, clear and sweet, splashing across the machine and my fingers. It dripped freely into the vessel I had placed below, each drop a quiet rhythm against the metal bowl. I watched it, fascinated, before reaching for the small silver tap resting beside me.

With care, I pressed the tap into the freshly drilled hole. The flow slowed, then stopped, held still by the pressure of the seal. I took a small brush, dipped it into glue, and traced the edges of the tap where it met the skin. I waited, letting it set, as the silence in the room deepened. I started having the blood drops that were collected in the vessel. When the vessel was finally empty, I leaned forward, lips brushing the rim, and licked what remained—just a trace, cold and sweet, like a secret kept too long.

A moment later, I opened the tap.

The sweet red blood flowed again, slower now, like a lazy stream under the afternoon sun. I held small plastic cups beneath the tap, filling them one by one, the soft trickle strangely satisfying. There was something deeply satisfying about it—the gentle rhythm, the subtle scent of Rathika in the air, the cool, almost silken texture of her blood as it passed through my fingers. When the last cup was full, I closed the tap with a soft twist. I carried the cups back inside, opened the freezer, and placed them neatly on the top shelf. Then, with a final glance, I shut the door.

The next day, my back ached as I rolled out of bed. I didn’t sleep well last night. Still half-asleep, I made my way to the kitchen, craving the comfort of my favorite red jelly soup, and held the envelope back again.