While in his studies, he sits alone,
Writing stories that come from the heart
And reading notes from a love far apart.
On the window sill perched a red and pink parakeet,
A bird, the color of a heart, with a mysterious paper attached to its feet.
With a chirp and then a peep,
As if to say, "Open and read it, it's yours to keep,"
Following the birds orders he unties the note.
Unfolding it, here's what it wrote,

"I'm writing this now, to you, my love. To tell you I have limited time left in this world. I can't express how I love you, so I sent the symbol sitting on the sill. Don't go on and start to miss me, I can't stand to see you cry. But I will return one way or another, whether it be the wind in your ear, or the bird of a feather..."

At that moment a small, red feather twirls down from the air.
He looks to the sill,
But the bird is not there.
A faint cry stabs into the room,
And a cold chill takes over his bones.
"It's not her, no, not yet,"
There's an eerie crackling in the mirror behind him,
He turns around,
And carved into the glass are these words,

DON'T FRET

That moment proved it was her,
But can it be to soon?
SLAM!
The glass shatters and then a knock at the door.
Slowly opening, he peers outside into the fierce blizzard,
There's nobody there.
Baffled, he looks down to see if a package had been delivered,
Instead, he saw these words written in the snow,

DON'T FRET

SLAM!
The door closes and locks him inside,
Not able to escape.
Cold sweat dripping from his terrified face,
He races to the phone to call for help.
Picking up the receiver, he begins to dial.
But on the other end of the line he hears these words whispered into his ear,

DON'T FRET

SLAM!
The phone hangs up.
He runs to his bedroom and into the bathroom,
Calming himself, he splashes cold water on his face.
Drying himself off, then removing the towel from his face, these words are written in red and pink lipstick on the wall,

DON'T FRET

Scared and confused,
He scurries downstairs.
But only to be met by a figure at the door,
A figure of a women, his love.
He says to her,
"This can't be, is it really you?"
She replies,
"Yes. I'm here, for you,"

There's a flash of white light,
And all is silent and peaceful.
Nobody is left inside the house except for an unfinished read note.
A gust of wind blows the last fold open,
And the ending sentence of the note read,

"...But this bird comes with a secret never to be repeated, It will bring you to me, but don't fret, my love, don't fret. We'll soon be reunited,"