The envelope was waiting like a small moon at my door, pale and perfect, catching the hall light in a way that made it look more important than the electricity bill underneath it. My breath did a weird little jog. I picked it up, half afraid it would evaporate if I moved too fast, half afraid it would explode if I moved too slow.
It didn’t do either. It just sat there—heavy cream paper, my name in dark ink, neat and unforgiving.
Inside, the card was crisp. The handwriting was the same as before: disciplined, elegant, the kind of script that belonged in ledgers and love letters. I read the first line once, then again, then a third time because apparently my brain had decided comprehension was a luxury.
You’re thinking of me. I know because I’m thinking of you…
Of course he would write t
