“Happy birthday, I miss you.”
The handwriting is small, the letters carefully formed. No name is signed to the note in the otherwise blank card, just a tiny heart. No return address, no stamp. Rain has been falling heavily for days, and yet the envelope is dry and unwrinkled.
I imagine the sender walking in the winter grey, feet cold and fingers numb, the card kept safe from the elements inside a coat. It is an act of love, redolent with regret. A beautiful, but wasted, act. It’s not my birthday and I have only lived here a week.