Dana Vespoli Dear -

Look under the bed.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Dana didn’t move. She thought of the stray cat— Dear, she called him —who had stopped showing up three days ago. She thought of the way the fog had been pressing against her windows earlier than usual, thick as cotton.

She read on.

Dana Vespoli dear, she whispered to herself, the way her grandmother used to begin every scolding. And then she got up, very slowly, and walked toward the bedroom, leaving the letter on the table beside the wilting geraniums and the unpaid bill.

The fog had already started to seep through the keyhole. dana vespoli dear

I live in the walls, Dana Vespoli. Not as a ghost. Not as a rat. As a memory you buried wrong. Remember the summer you were twelve, and you told your sister she could have the last piece of peach cobbler? You lied. You ate it at midnight, standing over the sink, and you never told her. That’s me. That’s all the little truths you fed to the dark.

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between a pizza coupon and a final notice for a bill she’d already paid. No return address. Just her name in looping, old-fashioned cursive: Dana Vespoli dear. Look under the bed

Here’s a short draft story based on the prompt “Dana Vespoli dear.” I’ve interpreted it as a dramatic, character-driven piece with an intimate, slightly melancholic tone. Dear Dana Vespoli