Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Nine — Gifts That Arrive Late
The delivery arrived the morning after the holiday, timed with the kind of precision that suggested deliberation rather than eagerness. It did not interrupt the rhythm of the house or announce itself with urgency. Willow noticed movement through the front window and rose without conscious thought, crossing the room before she had fully named the impulse.
She opened the door to find the courier already stepping back, offering a brief, professional nod that carried no expectation of conversation. Two boxes sat just inside the threshold, aligned neatly against the wall, their placement careful enough to feel intentional rather than convenient. When Willow turned back toward the hall, the courier had already left, the boxes delivered without pause, as though the house itself had signed for them.
She did not need to read the label to know who had sent them.
