“Hello.  I need you.  I love you.  Come back.” 

I read and reread the letter over the course of the next week.  I was becoming obsessed, but felt like I had to know who the letter was to.  Or at least who the letter was from.  I had just bought a house and had found a few boxes in the shed that had been left by the previous owners.  When I had tried to contact the number I had for the wife, my initial calls told me her number was disconnected.  I left the boxes where they were for a few weeks in hopes the family came back for them, but after two months, I finally just decided to toss them. 

The love letter I found and was currently obsessing over had been in a box that split completely open on the way to the trash can sending the papers everywhere.  There must have been hundreds of love letters written over the course of a single year, but none were signed, just dated.  Some of the first letters I read seemed like there could be a love triangle and I became enthralled by the fact someone had left the relationship under questionable circumstances. 

I assume the one who had left was the one who was being pressured to come back under threat.  But the more I started to dig into the family I bought my house from, the more I became suspicious of what else was buried in the backyard.