Clara’s pov
The letter was waiting under the napkin holder again when I came down for the morning shift.
Marnie didn’t even slide it across this time. She just pointed at it with the spatula. “Third one. Or second. I’ve lost count. You’re popular with whoever keeps writing these.”
I stared at the envelope. Same handwriting. Same lack of return address.
The heat in my chest already present from another night of the silver-thread dream flared once in recognition.
“I’m not reading it,” I said.
Marnie raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Last one you at least opened.”
“I’m sure.” I picked it up, felt the weight of the paper, and shoved it straight into the pocket of my apron without breaking the seal. “He’s said enough.”
“If you say so.” She turned back to the grill, but her voice stayed poi
