I sat there for a moment still pondering things on the edge of my bed. After a few moments, I took all the pieces of paper and put them in the back of a large hardback book for safekeeping. With the lights out, I went back to bed, but couldn't stop thinking about it. Revisiting a few specific passages in my head, I soon began to wonder whether I should seek out the family of the man that had lived there and return them.

Thinking things over more, I realized that they probably weren't meant for the family directly, though. If he had really wanted them to have them, I thought he would have put them in accessible place or even told his family about them at some point while he was sick. The date on the final piece wasn't too long before he left the apartment for the care facility (or so I gathered from what I had been told).

I imagined the man writing out one of them diligently every once in awhile, not quite knowing who would find them, and not really writing them with anyone particular in mind. Whenever he'd finish a piece, he'd take the blind off the wall and unroll it all out on the floor while he placed the new letter every so carefully by the others. The reason the letters hadn't been addressed to anyone is because they were written specifically for the person that found them.