Home
Mara meets him at the door, with a grin and a hug and shriek in the ear. Their little house is filled with her things and (for some reason) potted plants, with little gaps in the bookshelf and the kitchen cupboards to accommodate him.
“Here,” she says, after helping him move all his stuff to at least the living room floor, “this came for you this morning.”
“This” is a letter, the address handwritten, and with an Aylesbury postmark. While Mara, in her excitable domesticity, insists on making the very first meal in their student house for them to share (before, naturally, going to the union bar and finding some other freshers to talk to) he rips into it, and shakes out a surprisingly short letter.
His eyes jump to the name at the bottom, and his heart fumbles for a second before he
