NEWBORN
The mailbox was just a mailbox. Grey. Metal. Slightly rusted at the edges. The kind of mailbox that had seen things—bills, junk mail, the occasional misguided love letter—and asked no questions. I respected that. Mailboxes were the unsung heroes of urban infrastructure. They kept secrets. They never judged. I opened it. Inside, a single envelope. No address. No stamp. Just my name in handwriting I didn't recognize—blocky, deliberate, like someone had learned to write from a manual on how to not get caught. Deia. I opened it. A slip of paper. An address. A time. And at the bottom, in smaller letters: Bring snacks. Long drive. —Leo I laughed. Actually laughed. Standing in front of my apartment building at eight in the morning, holding a criminal summons that ended with a snack request. T
- Writer
