It is only after I have been at my new flat for some months that I begin to receive mail other than bills and offers to enter prize draws. One of my first personal envelopes contains a scrawled message from an old acquaintance with whom I was friendly many years ago. I am distressed to read that my friend is deeply unhappy, and I am disturbed further to read that if he receives no reply to the letter I hold in my hands he will feel compelled to chop off one of his fingers with a kitchen knife.
Days pass, full of inconsequential incidents, until a small parcel arrives.
The postmark indicates that it is from my friend. With trepidation I open it. Underneath the brown wrapping paper is a little box which bears the return address of my friend. There is also a stamp on the box, but other than this the package proves to be empty. I open up the box, but the space within is likewise vacant.