The Punchline of Regret
LENA
The envelope was thick, old-fashioned—cream-colored with embossed edges, the kind of thing someone might use for a wedding invitation. Lena frowned as she turned it over in her hands. No return address. Just her name, written in looping, unmistakable script.
She hadn't seen handwriting like that in years.
She sat down cross-legged on her meditation cushion, sandalwood incense curling around her like smoke from a smoldering memory. With trembling fingers, she slit the seal with a bronze feather-shaped letter opener.
Inside was a single card. Elegant. Deceptively simple:
You've always been my best material. Now it's time for one last laugh.
— Eden Gray
Grayfall Manor. Saturday. 8 p.m.
Lena read it three times. Her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread.
It had to be a joke. Some sick prank.
But the handwriting—messy, elegant, rushing to keep up with thought—was Eden's. There was no mistaking it. The tilt of the letters. The barely closed loops.
She stood abruptly, pacing the cramped studio. Her crystals clattered as she bumped a shelf. Her tea went cold.
Eden was dead. Gone. Buried. Lena had seen the photos, read the headlines, watched the tribute video with the shaky ukulele cover of "Fix You."
But the letter was here. It was real.
She set the card down like a ticking bomb and reached for her phone. For a long moment, her thumb hovered over Marc's name. Then she closed her eyes.
"No," she whispered. "Let it go."
But she didn't delete the address.
THEO
Theo stared at the envelope like it was ticking.
It had arrived via standard post, wedged between a pizza flyer and a court summons for a tenant who'd moved out last August.
No return address. No postage. Just his name. The paper had the faint scent of gardenia—Eden's signature perfume.
He opened it using a pencil, unwilling to touch the paper directly. Inside, the same message:
You've always been my best material. Now it's time for one last laugh.
Grayfall Manor. Saturday. 8 p.m.
It was her handwriting. He knew. He had pored over scanned journal entries, old birthday cards fans had auctioned online. He knew every curl of her capital Gs.
The walls of his apartment stared back at him. Dozens of case files. A shrine of tabloid tragedy. Eden frozen in time. Laughing. Shouting. Crying.
Theo reached for his recorder.
"This is Theo Banner. Time-stamp: Friday, 11:12 a.m. Received a letter. Possibly linked to Eden Gray. Same handwriting. No clear origin. Proceeding with caution."
He clicked off the recorder and added the address to his map.
Just in case.
VIVIAN
Vivian found the envelope propped against her mirror during a mid-show touch-up. It hadn't been there five minutes ago.
She opened it with a long fingernail and read silently:
You've always been my best material. Now it's time for one last laugh.
Grayfall Manor. Saturday. 8 p.m.
A sharp, reflexive laugh cracked from her lips. "Real cute," she muttered.
She scanned the greenroom. No one seemed out of place. No smirking PAs. No hidden cameras.
The name—Grayfall Manor—landed with a thud in her stomach. Eden had hated that place. Had joked it would be her final destination. Vivian always thought she was exaggerating.
She pulled up her laptop. Technically, she had a filming day blocked. But her instincts screamed louder than her PR team ever could.
She marked the day off.
She was going.
DARREN
Darren found the envelope under his windshield wiper. Rain had smeared the ink, but the message was still legible:
You've always been my best material. Now it's time for one last laugh.
Grayfall Manor. Saturday. 8 p.m.
He shook his head, laughing bitterly. "Unreal."
He tossed the envelope into the passenger seat and pulled out of the lot. His hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary.
Eden hadn't haunted him in years. He'd closed that door. He'd locked it.
But now? She was cracking it open from the other side.
On autopilot, he entered the address into his GPS. A red pin appeared on a map just outside the city.
Nowhere.
He cursed.
"Dammit, Eden."
MARC
Marc found the envelope on his doormat. No explanation. Just a name, a memory, and a resurrection.
The message inside was the same:
You've always been my best material. Now it's time for one last laugh.
Grayfall Manor. Saturday. 8 p.m.
He sat at his desk and opened an old drawer. Notebooks spilled out—his and Eden's. Collaborative chaos. Red ink and marginalia. Ghosts of punchlines unfinished.
He ran his fingers across the spine of her favorite one. A leather-bound mess of brilliance.
He grabbed his phone and created a group text. The first in years.
Marc: Did you guys get one too?
A pause. Then:
Lena: Yes.
Vivian: What the hell is this?
Theo: I'm going.
Darren: If this is some PR stunt, someone's getting sued.
Marc typed back:
Marc: Grayfall Manor. We need to talk.
He stared at the phone until the screen dimmed.
Somewhere far away, in the shadowed countryside, Grayfall Manor stood silent. Waiting.
The ink had barely dried.
The curtain was rising.
And the dead weren't done telling jokes.