The envelope wasn't a bill. That was the first strange thing. No stamp, no postmark, no address. Just Y/n's name, written in emerald-green ink that shimmered in the dim hallway light.

It was cold out. The kind of cold that bites through a dressing gown and settles deep in the bones. The letter sat there, impossibly dry despite the downpour, as if the rain was refusing to touch it.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The rain hammered the window panes. The letter, in Y/n's trembling hands, remained bone-dry.