Just a plain white envelope, my name scrawled across the front in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting. No return address. No stamp.

I turn it over in my hands, feeling the weight of it. The paper is thick, expensive. The kind that smells faintly of old libraries and secrets.

Inside, a single sheet reads:

The address is in Edinburgh. A part of the city I don’t recognize.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from an unknown number.