(Kealen)
It arrives on a Monday in a plain envelope.
No pack crest this time. No wax seal, no formal markings. Just my name on the front in handwriting I recognize the shape of even after everything — the way you recognize things you've spent years learning to read, the muscle memory of it surviving longer than the reason you learned it.
Sora brings it to me in the study.
She doesn't say anything when she sets it on the desk. She looks at the handwriting and then at me and then she leaves, closing the door behind her. That's how I know she knows what it is before she hands it over. Sora always knows.
I sit with it for a while.
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The morning outside the study window is doing something ordinary. Overcast, the kind that might become rain by afternoon or might just stay gray and nonco
