He has left a box by a large house and his badly dressed state is out of place against the ostentatious backdrop. How he delivered the box, it is not clear; he certainly is in no shape to carry it.
As he walks further away from the box, he becomes frailer and frailer. His skin becomes paper; his wrinkles deepen; his gait little more than a hobble. It is dark, too dark to clearly make out what happens next.
In a blink of an eye, he appears to crumble to dust.
The box is found when the sun rises. It is dragged inside by a woman. She reaches for a device to ensure it is safe to open – they have to take precautions, these days – but a hand on her arm stops her.
“I think I know what it is,” a man says. His voice is quiet – respectful? – and he easily tears the box open.
This is a little… strange, for me. Of course it must also be quite bizarre for you, though perhaps by now you’re used to queer happenings in your life. I am writing to you to explain all that has happened up to this point, but it will take a long time. However, I am sure you can make the time. You are smart; you will understand that this is important. I know that you have already learned some of the truth, but soon you will know it all.
I apologise, first and foremost. All of this time was but a blink of an eye to me, and I suspect I am… disassociated, as it were. Maybe the pain and struggles that you have been through have been too much, and you will hate me – but I think I know enough about you that you will understand.
Needs must. We are both of the rather utilitarian school of thought. My means may be harsh, but I had to know that you were capable. I trusted that you were strong enough.
After all, only the breakable break.