Episode 48 - Letterhead Without Origin

It was Monday.

The station hummed at a low, agreeable frequency. The vending machine offered crackers again, unprompted. Lurch had returned a borrowed wrench with a single nod.

And on Olivia’s desk sat an envelope.

She hadn’t seen anyone leave it.

She’d gone to get tea—five minutes, tops.

When she returned, there it was.

Unmarked.

Cream-colored. Heavyweight. Edges sealed in black wax.

No stamp.

No handwriting.

Just her name.

Not typed.

Not printed.

Etched.

She waited until the kettle clicked off.

Until Monitor 6B showed nothing but test pattern ripples.

Then she opened it.

Inside: one page.

Folded with clean, impossible precision.

No greeting. No signature. Just a list.

Twelve questions.

What do you remember that didn’t happen to you?

How do you define “alive,” and when did that definition change?

If asked to lock a door forever, would you?

What would you keep from the Vault, even if told to destroy it?

What does your tail know that your brain refuses to admit?

Which corridor do you avoid, and why?

If the station asked you to dream on its behalf, what would you dream?

What shape does safety take?

What would you say to the Olivia who never took the job?

What have you named the cartoon dog?

When did you last lie to the signal?

Who will you become if no one tells you who to be?

She read them twice.

Then again.

The page did not fade.

The ink did not bleed.

But on the back, in the lower corner, a line had appeared.

Just five words:

“Return answers when you’re ready.”

She folded it.

Placed it gently in the center drawer.

And whispered, “Understood.”