I
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, damp at the corners as
though it had traveled through rain that no calendar remembered. Eleanor Voss
turned it over twice before she opened it, because the handwriting on the front
was her aunt’s, and her aunt had been dead for six years.
She read it three times standing in the hallway of her small
London flat, coat still buttoned, before she understood what it was asking of
her. Not a message from beyond, nothing so theatrical as that. The letter had...
