It arrived on a Thursday, addressed to Sera specifically, in a handwriting she recognized immediately — the ninety-one-year-old hand, careful and slow, each letter placed with the deliberateness of someone who understood that the words they were writing might be among the last they sent anywhere.
She read it at the kitchen island, the morning light coming in at the angle it came at in February, the compound's ordinary sounds around her.
*Luna of Shadowmere,*
*I am writing this in December and I don't know when it will reach you, so I don't know what season it will arrive in. I hope something is in bloom, but it doesn't matter.*
*I want to tell you something I didn't say when you were here for the opening.*
*I've been alive for ninety-one years. In those years I have seen a great many
