Herein lie the letters from Tickle and Knock, by S.L. Snow and K.
Initial Letter: S.L. Snow
I am sorry for the clumsiness of my hand, I could not say with any accuracy how long it has been since last I set pen to paper. I sleep more and more, and whether days or decades pass I do not know, though I feel it grow longer and longer between wakings. Perhaps soon I shall cease to wake at all, which might not be such a bad thing.
But you woke me! You sounded bright and small – your little feet tickled as you climbed on my back, and I would not have believed you were there at all had you not left your address tucked in my hand – so tiny I could barely make it out!
Why did you leave it?
Did you know I was there?
Part of me feels it must have been an accident, a trick of the wind. And yet. And yet I thought I felt you climb into my hand and leave it there yourself. Did I dream that?
Spring has left her marks on me. I found grass and crocuses growing in the crook of my elbow when finally I stirred, and the creases of my fingers and toes and the seat of my pants filled with all manner of living things which I was loathe to disturb, but I rehoused them as best I could. My waking seems to unsettle more and more around me; I am determined that this shall be one of the last. I hardly belong to the world any more, except perhaps as a memory – and there is another question! How did you come to know of me? You are too small to remember yourself, surely.
Memory is a strange thing. Mine seems to be as old as my skin, and as unrelenting. But the last good memory is of something small, like you; she would seek out my company from time to time, and seemed to take pleasure in it even! It was she who taught me to write, so that we could speak together even when she was far away. Could she be an ancestor of yours? Are you she, as she was, or are you he? Such things are unclear to my eyes, but I recall it mattered much to her!
You have left me in a state of confusion, but not, dare I say, without a little hope.