You can find love letters there. A new one every few months, except ... they are not new. The paper is thin as spider silk; the ink is more etching than paint. One at a time, they appear, folded and wedged into the architrave of a small window, hidden from view by a "natural wood" Ikea shelf. As you peruse a study of Wampanoag cooking ... reach your hand back and to the left ...
"Dearest Madam,
You gave a lovely performance again this evening.
Every night I see it, you change a little thing here, pause in a new moment, laugh when before you had shed a single tear. And always, there is the light that shines, not on you, but from you. I am not the only one who feels it, I know, who hopes that beacon beams secretly for them.
But I am the one who will tell you this: stop it.
Forget your lines. Put away the props. Climb down from the stage. Be still and show me nothing. Give me no clues. Do not create another word, smile, or gesture until I have found you. These are the distractions that others mistake for the truth, and you let them believe it. You leave them talking to your shadow as you run far away. They think they hold you, but you cannot feel it. And when the light fades and they lose sight of you, you lie to yourself that you are lost.
I will find you."
