ARIA'S POV
The knock came while I was still in bed.
I wasn't expecting anyone. I opened the door to find the building's mail carrier holding a stack of envelopes and a small package, apologizing for the late delivery, something about the route running long. I took everything, thanked him, and closed the door with my hip.
Bills, A gallery catalogue, A reminder about renewing my renter's insurance.
And then, at the bottom of the stack, a cream envelope with my name written in careful, deliberate cursive.
No return address. Just a Portland postmark.
I stood at my kitchen counter and opened it.
Three pages. It was handwritten throughout. The same careful script on every line, unhurried, like the person writing it had sat down and taken all the time they needed.
The name at the bottom
