Anyone there?

You await the letter eagerly. Will it be red or blue? It feels like a red day today, but you have no idea. That’s the point really, what this is all about. This is your 78^th letter since you moved here. Yes, you’ve counted. Sad? Perhaps. But hey, you did it.

6:57 a.m. So close. You fidget on your feet like an impatient toddler. Yesterday was a blue day. A blue envelope, and the number five printed on the letter inside. The same combination of number and colour was delivered on May 22^nd. It rained that day, and you remember that: you made note of it. But then again, it rained a similar amount on May 24^th and, as you have written on your wall amongst pinned letters and sticky notes, that was a red envelope day.

6:58 a.m. Is this watch slow? You think. You really are raring for this today. The letters always arrive at 7 am exactly. To the millisecond (or so you like to believe, your watch isn’t that accurate). You might think, why not keep the mailbox open and see where the letters come from? Well, you did think this. You tried this exact tactic on May 14^th and again on May 18^th, you received no letters on those days. However, you noticed that the mailbox still smelled of laundry detergent at 7 am on both occasions.

The metal mailbox reflects the heat of the summer morning onto your forehead. Humming energy. You don’t have to look at your watch to know you are seconds away from 7 a.m., for you can feel static electricity buzz over your skin. The flag on the mailbox pings upright and you practically prance to the front of it and pull the door open. The soapy smell confirms that you have been gifted again today. The inside of the box is shadowed, hiding the colour of the envelope. Even so, you notice something is – off. Slightly.

You pull the letter out slowly, savouring the moment. This is the highlight of your day. Inch by inch, the envelope is bathed in light. But this is not right. You’re shocked. You’re ecstatic. You’re terrified, too. For the envelope today is green. At first you are still. You stare as if you’ve never seen the colour green before. It’s a bright lime. It gleams in the morning sunlight.

You clamber your hand around the small cavity of the mailbox. Nothing is different. You stare again at the envelope with your mouth wide open. You look around, up, and down. There’s no one nearby. You close the mailbox and the flag lowers itself as always.

When you get to the door of your home, you struggle with the handle; your hands are shaking. The hallway is dark and cool. The remnants of yesterday’s outfit are still strewn over the banister. You step over the build-up of packaging on the floor and follow the hall to what used to be your living room. It is now your headquarters. This room has become your world over the last few months.

You pick up your knife from the table and you (carefully of course, considering your trembling) loosen the flap on the envelope. You slide the paper out lovingly. Excitement powers your heart which pounds just as eagerly as you unfold the paper.

RAIN

That’s what is written. In a deeper blue than any printer you’ve ever seen can manage. The blue has a quality which is strange to you, a depth. It’s like a place you could climb into rather than a shape on a page. Each note appears to be handwritten, though the style is unusual.

You draw a line down your wall in tape, slowly, precisely. This new note is pinned in line with the first red note and the first blue note, each contained in their own section.

Rain. You are familiar with the word, of course. But in this context? You stare at it blankly. A word is a big jump. Up until now you have only been supplied with the number 1, 2, 3, or 5 (or, peculiarly, the letter B or C). Always one number (or letter) at a time. You had, of course, noticed that A and 4 were missing from these sequences. You considered these – map coordinates? A cipher, perhaps? Nothing has paid off. Yet.

The choice of word is not random, you suppose. In fact, it is quite interesting. April 7^th, when this all started, there was rain. You don’t even have to look at your wall to remember it was a red envelope and the letter B that day.

You switch on a screen, tap some keys, and images of suns flick up. They indicate bright weather this week, but no rain. Not that the forecast is always right. You lean back in your chair and rub the back of your head. Still, you do not understand. This word, though written on your wall, explains nothing to you. Sparks nothing.

Breeze slides in from the bottom of the window. The notes flutter in their places. So, April 7^th. It rained, what else? That day’s lottery numbers, you look through your sticky note list and find them, scribble them down in your notebook. Oh! The moon! What was that doing on April 7^th? You swing your chair to face the calendar, it gets stuck on the wall behind you, jarring you in place. It was a full moon on April 7^th. You flip back to June excitedly. But today is a crescent moon. You punch the air.

Perhaps it is time to scrap April 7^th. Perhaps it is time to scrap rain. Because above all else, today is interesting because today is different. Something has changed, and you need to know why. You become fidgety again. But this time you are not excited: you are nervous. Restless, perhaps. You realise that new events call for new behaviour. Today, sitting at your desk looking up code cracking and scanning the air with your radio won’t cut it, (despite the interesting yet unidentifiable sounds you’ve managed to pick up on various days recently).

Today you are certain that something will happen. Something new.

If you were a well-connected person you may have invited friends round to discuss ideas and keep watch around the house for any phenomena. But you’re not. So instead, you drag your metal chair over your front porch and down the path. You sit yourself down by the mailbox and crack open a can of that drink you like. You know the one.

You have no nearby neighbours to disturb you. No one ever passes through this area, either. You fasten your bath robe tightly around you by its straps. Crickets chirp nearby but you cannot see them. The heat has risen and water vapour wobbles above the ground over the horizon.

You sit outside all day. Clouds roll by, the occasional breeze strokes your messy hair, the crickets get louder. Nothing is new. You wonder if the mailbox has run out of steam after this morning. Maybe green was just too much for it to handle.

The sun sets, it’s pretty, but nothing special. As the sun floats down the sky, your eyes too begin to sink. Your grip on your fifth can of drink today weakens and it relaxes into your lap. The crickets get further away, as do you.

You are awoken by a static feeling. Stronger than the soft buzz of electricity each morning. It rattles your skull. You feel a little dizzy – both from the static and the excitement. The mailbox whines as it moves ever so slightly on its pole. You lean forward in your chair. The mailbox moves again, further this time. You jump to your feet, ejecting drink from the can. The mailbox continues its display. Its movements have gone from intriguing sway to violent writhing. Maybe you would gasp, or scream, or curse. But you can’t get a sound out. It ceases suddenly. All is quiet, even the crickets.

Is that it?

You didn’t sit out here all day to watch a mailbox move for half a minute. You are disappointed. Or maybe that’s…anger? Yes, you are angry. Your mailbox promised so much and has let you down.

But then, a soapy smell.

The flag pops up.

Your skull rattles.

The mailbox pushes itself open. Eager for you to understand this time.

You pull the letter from the box. You don’t go inside, you open it then and there, clumsily pulling at the flap.

Another word: ARIZONA.

The letters are smaller than usual, more of them have been squeezed on the page than ever before. This is a word, yes. But this is new grounds. A sense of wonder blows over you and you look up from the note. Your eyes meet with the word Arizona, but not the one written on the paper in your hand.

Now you understand. They have finally cracked it and made you understand. You stare at your license plate. The car has rarely been driven these past months. But there they are in front of you, the chipped metal letters: A-R-I-Z-O-N-A.

You begin to make the sorts of connections you’ve pined for, for months. But there was never a pattern. No prophetic letters or numbers which tell you the weather. Of course not.

The numbers and letters which have puzzled you, taunted you, dance before you on the licence plate.

ARIZONA

B C1325

Every message which you clung so tightly to – meaningless. Clearly the senders of these notes have been watching you: they have seen your car, your home, your scribbled words on the wall. These things are your language, the only language they know for you. And language is their only way through. Every number, letter, and word all have meant the same thing: ‘We are here, please understand us’.

You run to your door. Things happen in a rush now, they blur. You rummage through your books and papers. Once carefully organised, they are now spread out scrappily. You tear open a drawer and feel around. You find a pen near the back.

You slam the letter down and scribble ‘hello’. The word is messy, possibly too messy to read. It doesn’t matter. You could write ‘your mother smells like a dumpster’ and it still wouldn’t matter. They won’t understand the specific terminology. Anything you could ever write would mean the same thing to them: ‘Message received’.

You carefully place the letter in the mailbox. You’ve chosen a red envelope: it feels like a red envelope day today. You close the door on the box. Leaving your hand there for a moment, you take a breath. You raise the little red flag and close the door.

You smell soap and feel the buzz of electricity.