The envelope felt heavier than it should.
Like it carried more than paper. Like it carried memory, power, threat.
I turned it over in my hand, fingers brushing the wax seal. The color was wrong for comfort. Blood red, deep as dried rust. My thumb hovered for a second too long, like part of me believed that if I opened it, I’d be letting something in.
But it was already in.
Had been, ever since Caitlin disappeared.
I cracked the seal. It snapped with a dry, delicate sound, like old bone breaking. Inside, a single piece of ivory cardstock, thick and unblemished.
Not handwritten, no signature, just six words, printed in clean, precise type.
“You’ve forgotten the rules.
Come home.”
No address, no date, just the silence behind the message and the cold certainty that it wasn’t a sugges
