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The letter appeared on a Tuesday.
Mara had lived alone in the cottage for three years — long enough to stop expecting anything from the world beyond her garden wall. So when she found the envelope tucked beneath the heather, sealed with wax the color of a dying star, she almost didn't open it.
Almost.
The handwriting inside was nothing like anyone she'd ever known. Each letter was precise and deliberate, as if the writer had practiced every stroke, afraid that carelessness might break something fragile.
"I don't know how this letter will reach you," it began. "I only know that it must."