POV: SIENNA
The letter arrives on a Thursday, slipped under my apartment door sometime between midnight and seven in the morning, which means Marcus either delivered it himself or paid someone to, and based on the handwriting — careful, slow, the handwriting of someone relearning the physical act of writing after an extended absence from themselves — I think it was him.
I know it's from him before I open it because the envelope has no return address and the handwriting on the front is my name, just my first name, in the careful script of someone who knows me well enough to not need the last name but formally enough to have sealed the envelope rather than left it folded.
I make coffee first. I sit at my kitchen table. I open the envelope.
