The boy with a blue hat and a large bag slung over his shoulder was making his way towards the porch. Watching through my bedroom window, I felt like a stalker. He was the mailman. I went downstairs and whipped the door open, startling the poor guy. He reached for the mailbox and held them out for me indecisively.
“You can give them to me,” I said. Flustered, he gave me the envelope, and I inspected it in my hands. “Have a nice day.”
“Y-you too,” he stammered and scampered to the next house.
Closing the door behind me, I leaned against the kitchen counter while reading the label. It had my name and address on it, and in the corner, there was a Nightingale stamp.
Eagerly, I slit open the envelope and took out the paper and a corresponding card. The card felt heavy and was a bit thick. I
