September 7, 1999
To an outsider, George looked mad. He was tearing through all his dingy drawers and unkept cupboards, and there was a certain look of longing and perseverance in his eyes. He rummaged around until he found it, the only letter he had received from her since she had still loved him.
Attached to the letter was a single picture. It was of nothing, a pure black picture surrounded by a white outline. He flipped the blankness over, expecting words, but nothing was there. George quickly opened the letter, but alas, the only writing on the page was a small scribble:
Love,
Juniper
