The parcel wasn’t addressed by name.
Just Amelia scribbled across the top of a plain envelope, like whoever wrote it had paused, changed their mind about saying more, and left it at that. The handwriting was familiar — bold, slanted, controlled. She would’ve recognized it even if the signature hadn’t been at the end.
Nora had found it sitting on their porch when she came back from the grocery store. No one had knocked. No doorbell rang.
Amelia didn’t ask how it got there.
She already knew.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it. The packaging crinkled like it was breathing.
Inside was a notebook.
Elegant. Simple. Heavy in her hands.
She held it like it might bleed if she pressed too hard.
Her name shimmered on the cover in gold foil. Not her full name. Just Amelia.
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