text: Hey. It's been awhile, hasn't it? I just want to start out by saying that, before you jump to any conclusions about the meaning of this sudden outreach, that I am not dying, nor am I in some financial trouble. In fact, nothing of any major significance at all has lead to me writing out this message to you. Does there really have to be a reason? I mean, I know we didn't leave things off on a good note, or even a bad one. I know you said you never wanted to see or hear from me again, and for a good while, I was okay with that. I realize now that that's only what I told myself, what I wanted to believe, that I never should have let you be a part of my life. I was wrong; You finally get to see me say that. In spite of everything that is different about us, you are still, to me anyway, my own and only daughter. Did I ever tell you how you and I first came to be so? It was a cold night, wet and miserable, the kind where it threatens to rain all day but never commits. I was a young man then, new to the job, fresh-faced and very sure of myself. The shift had gone on without incident for more than half its length, and I doubt I need to tell you that I did not feel it could end soon enough; The thought of chasing down some crook or pulling over some speeding civilian in that weather was an unpleasant one. It was, however, at that time that I drove through the old industrial neighborhood of Olney Heights, I think you know it. In those days, it was in a bad way. The economic downturn had shuddered more than a few businesses, and the neighborhood as a whole was like a patient with terminal cancer: A ravaged, emaciated shell of its former self. The only lights that were on as I passed through were the street lamps and my headlights, reflecting the water vapor that so readily hung in the air that evening as I drove along the cracked, unmaintained streets. All along, I could make out the husks of former factories and warehouses, doors boarded and padlocked, windows smashed by hoodlums or disgruntled ex-employees, the shattered glass left to reflect in the light of the lamps. It was then that, out of my peripherals, that I saw what looked like a lightning flash to my left. My mind naturally assumed it was so, at first. A few seconds passed, however, and it happened again, more intensely, and I noticed then that it was not coming from the sky, but from somewhere very near. What's more, it was not a brilliant blast of white light, as lightning is, but a deep full red, like a digital alarm clock blaring its tune. I didn't stop, I never stopped in neighborhood like Olney Heights, but I did slow down, and I craned my neck to get a better view of what, if anything, was causing that light. A little ways behind me now, an old steelworks plant stood, and it was there, for a third time, more clearly now, a terrible flash of red flooded the empty windows of the building's third floor. What would have happened if I had just kept going on, I sometimes wonder. It doesn't matter now, I suppose, because stop I most certainly did, and I got on my radio to report what I could only describe as a "possible disturbance" on private property. Waiting was what I would have preferred, but this was Olney Heights, on a night with miserable weather to boot; I knew nobody was coming any time soon. So I braced against the cold, turned off my car, and stepped out, my maglight in one hand, and the other hand at my gun holster. There were two things I noticed straight away, that gave me pause. The first was that the chain link fence that often surrounds such defunct properties as this had been cut open in several places, neat human-sized holes all in a row, the cut sections left where they fell. The second was the feeling on the air. It was not cold, as it had been everywhere else that night, but actually comfortably warm, the kind of warmth that extends from a radiator. I pressed on, my hand at my waist now gently undoing the holster clasp that held my gun in place. With a deep breath, I drew it forward, balancing the piece on the other arm that still clutched the maglight. I don't think I need to tell you that I was more than a little nervous now. The human mind cannot conceive of unnatural things actually occuring to it, and I could only think that it had to be some dispossessed and desperate people seeking shelter, no matter what little sense that made in retrospect. As I walked across the yard of the not-long-before vacant lot, I scanned across the way, back to the street. No cars parked there, save mine. The flashing continued, and the temperature was steadily increasing; It was like being in a bathroom when a shower runs without a fan now. I made it to the door, and another pang of fear hit me; The heavy padlock that had rested on the door had been cleanly cut through and also left where it fell, the door jarred open just enough for someone of average build to squeeze through. As I said before, I should have been much more cautious, but being the young upstart with ambition, I went ahead anyway, keeping the flashlight pointed downward and the gun at the ready as I pressed myself through the passageway. The first floor was barren; Anything that could be stripped away and sold had been so for enough time that dust gathered visibly on the husks of old machines and equipment. I scanned the room, first very quickly, then very, very slowly. The heat was becoming a bit hard to tolerate now, like I was hugging the radiator and not just in the same room as it, and I was sweating bullets by the time I worked up the courage to step forward, further into this decrepit place. I couldn't see the flashing light now, but I could hear something. It was faint, but unmistakeably the sound of people talking. No surprise there, but it still unnerved me. I pressed on, towards the stairs knowing the elevator would be inoperable. The stairwell was all metal, and I took great pains to ascend it as quietly as possible. The flashing was visible again, coming from the third floor just as I had seen from the outside, reaching downward and painting the otherwise pitch black stairwell with its malign intermittence. It was like I was in a hot bath now, and the flashes were so frequent I could have carried on without the maglight, yet I was mesmerised, my upper half barely moving as I crept up the stairwell, to the third floor. The feeling upon reaching the door to my destination was overwhelming. The flashing was so saturated in my vision now that I could see red even when it fell dark again. I could hear the voices more clearly now, though they did not say anything that made sense to me, repetitious chanting of some foreign tongue, and it was joined now by a sort of low buzzing drone that picked up with every flash of that damned red light, like an engine running then revving. It felt like I was on fire; I couldn't bear it a second longer. I steadied myself for only a moment before I kicked in the door as hard as I could, and advanced onto the floor, shouting my trained words, "Police! Hands where I can see them!". I don't quite remember what happened next, honestly. I saw three figures in the center of the room, black silhouettes against the source of the blaring red light they could somehow tolerate. I believe they turned to me and all nerve and levelheadedness vanished from my being. They say that, when you are a policeman in a life-or-death situation such as that, you cannot think, as there's simply no time to. So I acted; I fired and fired and fired again at the figures and perhaps irrationally at that horrible light. It was all over in an instant. Suddenly the room was cold again, the sound had vanished. It was replaced with the soft patter of rain hitting the building and the floors where the windows were smashed. I regained my composure, and looked around. The light had vanished, and then I heard it; The soft cry of a baby. This is where you come in, I'm sure you've guessed. Where once the figures stood and a terrible light blared, there was now just a baby, nestled on a cloth on an improvised altar made of an old office desk. The three figures lay slumped on the floor, shot through several times each, with ragged patchwork robes obscuring the form of each. Looking them all over, they seemed utterly normal, two were men, one a woman, all shaved of hair, but undeniably human. My attention fell then to you. You were a bit pale for a newborn, but you had all the signs of one; Closed eyes, miniscule form, thrashing about with a freshly cut umbilical. I had never been a father before, but I am a brother, and despite my police training, I heedlessly scooped you up off the floor. You stopped crying almost immediately, and I tell you this now: I loved you straight away. I never told anyone this, not even you. I hid you away for a time, reporting to my supervisors only that I had run across some odd cultists that had been trying to start a fire who had resisted arrest. I never told anyone why your eyes were a natural red, or your skin pale yet unharmed by sunlight. I lied about who your mother might be, and I'm sorry to tell you that to this day I do not know, though I fear we both might know who your true father is. I'd wager that this letter is either a life-changing shock, or what you've already gathered to know as truth, simply missing the last puzzle piece to tie it all together. It doesn't matter. This letter was meant just as much for I as it was for you. No matter what you do with this information, no matter what you might think of me now that it's yours, know that I still consider you my only daughter, my only family, and I hope that you feel the same about me.