Page 1 of Soul to Possess

Chapter One

I used to think silence was peace. That stillness meant safety. That quiet could be a balm. But I was wrong. Silence is only comforting when there’s someone on the other side of it. Now, it’s just... the hollow echo of my own breath.

I live in a town so small, you can drive through it without realizing you ever arrived. The kind of place where time doesn’t just move slow—it curdles. Where smiles are tight, conversations are shallow, and the air always smells faintly of rot and old pine.

Virginia in early spring is wet, stubborn, and moody. The sky can’t decide whether it’s done with winter, or still grieving something no one talks about. The trees are bare, but not beautiful. Just brittle. Like they’ve been holding their breath too long.

I know the feeling. The heater kicks on with a violent clunk, rattling through the walls like something trying to escape. I’m still curled on the secondhand loveseat in the living room, knees tucked under a blanket that doesn’t match the couch or anything else in this house. I haven’t turned on a light. There’s no need. Dim gray is all I need to see.

On the coffee table, a mug of tea has gone cold. The surface is skimmed with a thin film, forgotten. I reach for it anyway, more out of habit than hope. Everything I do now is out of habit. Breathing. Working. Waiting. Existing.

The mail came an hour ago. I didn’t check it until now. A single envelope, a local paper, a grocery flyer. Junk. All of it. But something about the weight of the paper felt heavier today. I don’t know why. I unfold the newspaper lazily, expecting the same obituaries and high school football drama.

But something catches my eye. Tucked in the back pages of the newspaper—between listings for used farm equipment and church bake sales—a small, boxed ad sat nestled in the "Personals" column. No fanfare. No bold headline. Just this:

No headline. Just a block of bold text. Centered. Typewritten. Precise.

“Widowed rancher in South Dakota seeks woman willing to relocate. This is not a dating ad. I’m not looking for games or fantasies. I want a partner. A quiet life. A reason to cook breakfast for someone again. I have room. Land. Dogs. Horses. Reading Space. You’d have your own room to start. We take it slow. Write me a letter if you’re curious.”

No phone number. Just a PO Box. My chest tightens. Not in that romantic way. Not in a flutter. It’s sharper than that. Like the edge of something I buried long ago just pierced the surface again. Who still writes letters? Who asks for slowness? Who sayspartnerinstead ofwife, orgirl, orsoulmate?

I reread the clipping. Again. And again. My hand trembles slightly, the way it does when I forget to eat. But I’ve eaten today. This is something else. Something raw. I don’t believe in fate. Not anymore. But I believe in accidents that feel like fate. I believe in paper cuts that bleed more than they should.

This ad is both. I should throw it away. Burn it. It’s insane. A scam. Or worse. But instead—I go to the kitchen and pull out a notebook I haven’t touched in three years. It still smells faintly of dust and lemon cleaner. I write the wordHello. And from there, I don’t stop. Not for a long time.

Hello.

To the man in South Dakota,

I don’t know what made me read your ad three times in a row. Maybe it was the way you didn’t pretend. Or the way it didn’t sound like a man trying to sell himself. You didn’t write it like a trap, or a fantasy. You just said what you wanted. Plain and bare.

I miss plain. I’ve spent a long time in a world where everyone wears ten masks, and love sounds like a marketing campaign. Everyone’s trying to be desirable. You weren’t. You were just… honest. I won’t pretend I’m something I’m not either.

I’m thirty-one. I live in a rented house that smells like mildew when it rains. I work a job that drains me so dry, sometimes I come home and stare at the ceiling for hours because I can’t figure out what else to do. I have no husband, no children, no dog. I had a fish once, but it died when the power went out and the water got too cold.

I don’t know what I expected life to be. Not this. I’m not conventionally beautiful. I wear my hair up most days, because it’s easier than seeing what it looks like down. I’m too quiet in public and too loud in my own head. But if you’re really looking for someone to cook breakfast for…

Maybe I’m the kind of person who remembers how people like their eggs.

Maybe I’m someone who still believes in long silences that don’t have to be filled. Maybe I’m still brave enough—just barely—to write this letter and send it, even if nothing comes of it.

So…If you're real, and you're still reading…

Write me back.

I’m not asking for magic. Just something honest.

—Genevieve

P.S. I like black coffee, thunderstorms, and books that ruin me. I hate the sound of ticking clocks and I haven’t danced in five years. Make of that what you will.

I folded the letter three times—neat, precise, like I could control something—and slipped it into the envelope. Then I froze. Return address. My hand hovered over the top left corner, pen tip trembling. Writing it down felt like peeling back skin. Like giving away the part of myself I usually keep hidden. What if he laughed? What if he showed someone? What if nothing came back? But if I didn’t include it… he couldn’t reply.

And I wanted him to.God, I wanted him to. So I wrote it. Slowly. In my cleanest handwriting. Not the address to my home—no. That felt too bare. I gave Maddie’s instead. She’d understand. Or pretend to, which was almost the same. Then I sealed the envelope. Dust and glue and the tiniest taste of courage.

Outside, the sky had that spring grayness that pressed down without breaking open. Virginia was cold this time of year—not Wisconsin cold, but enough to bite. I pulled my threadbare sweater tighter and told myself I wasn’t being dramatic. It wasn’t just a letter. It was a line thrown into the dark. A dare.

The post office was four blocks away. I walked instead of driving. The letter was light in my pocket, but it felt heavy, like something alive.

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