Letters Between Two Cities

The mistake happened on an ordinary Tuesday, and Clara Mendel never guessed it would change her year.

She was closing the bookshop on Harrow Street when she found the envelope tucked under her own door. It was thick, cream-coloured, and addressed in a careful hand to "T. Reyes, 14 Linden Court." Clara lived at 14 Linden Court, but her name was not Reyes. She turned the envelope over twice, frowning. The post office in Bryn was small and friendly, run by old Mr Pell, who knew everyone by name, but lately it had been busy with the autumn post, and letters sometimes wandered into the wrong hands.

She should have returned it at once, slipped it back through the slot at the post office and thought no more about it. Instead, tired and a little curious, she carried it home and sat at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and looked at the handwriting for a long time. There was something gentle about it, the way the letters leaned slightly to the right, as if the writer had been smiling while he wrote. She did not open it. She was not that sort of person; other people's words were not hers to read. But she did write a short note of her own and slip it into a fresh envelope.