Day 268

Several notes are discovered from a handful of humans, each notes from a person of a different age.

The youngest wonders what the reader may be like. They speculate and offer their versions of what the alien reader may look like.

"You have three noses, on for food, one for flowers and one for bathrooms. Also you like hats!"

There is charm in this naivety.

The older writers are more keen on asking questions in the hopes of answers.

They no longer care what the reader maybe or possess, only that they reciprocate.

"Dialogue can't be solitary!" An eager hand writes.

Desperation for some form of correspondence escalates as the senders get older; some go so far as to attribute everyday occurrences in their own lives as the reader's response in code.

"I felt as if you were that thrush of birds  escaping that fire storm. Was that you beside me I the evacuation?"

It was not. It never was you.

At a certain point, the goal of he letters shift, from wanting to have a dialogue, to simply wanting to leave evidence of having called out at all.

These would be found in the oldest of correspondents.

"I know now that I will likely never receive an answer, and the thought no longer troubles me. I also no longer dread that my musings may never meet another's eyes, though I should lament such a waste of ink and thought.

So with nothing more than hope of discovery, I write to you.

I will not expect a return, though I shouldn't mind receiving one if you are in the area.

I hope whomever you are, you appreciate that someone over. Here wanted to meet you very much. But will have to take consolation that I was simply too early for you.

A pity. I should have liked to have known whether or not. You in fact did like hats ... the number of noses is less prudent."

It turns out that every letter, every correspondence you've been pouring over, had come from the same person.

They had simply been writing you their entire lives.