His face tightened.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he opened the door fully.
“Bring it,” he told the man outside.
The envelope arrived inside a clear evidence sleeve.
It was old, the paper yellowed at the edges. No wax seal. No stamp.
My name had been written across the front in blue ink.
Not typed.
Written.
The handwriting curved sharply to the right.
I knew it.
I had seen it on birthday cards stored inside a box at my father’s apartment. I had seen it beneath recipes, beside notes in the margins of old novels, and across the final letter my mother had written to me before leaving on the night she died.
My knees weakened.
Niko caught my elbow.
I did not pull away.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered.
He looked at the envelope, then at me.
“You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
“Whose handwriting is it?”
