Reykjavík | One week later
The package arrived at Stella’s London office on a Tuesday morning, but she didn’t open it until Friday. Three days it sat on her shelf, a plain brown rectangle leaning against the law reports. She told herself she was busy—the Petrovich case required drafting a novel legal argument, the fund’s board was questioning her “desecration clause” proposal.
But truth was, she recognized the handwriting on the label.
Lin Yawen’s script, even in block capitals, had a distinctive slant—the same slant Stella had seen on birthday cards, on practice schedules, on the notes left on the fridge when her mother was on tour. Go practice. Soup in the pot.
On Friday evening, alone in the office with rain streaking the windows, she cut the tape.
Inside: no letter, no explanation
