[Meredith].
I reached our bedroom door, eased it open, and slipped inside. The air smelled faintly of cedar-and-night fragrance.
I shut the door, turned the lock, and leaned against it for a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
The envelope sat innocently in my hands—white, smooth, unmarked, except for the faintest trace of lavender. My heart tightened.
I crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed. My fingers hovered over the seal for a moment before I forced myself to open it.
A folded letter slid out. There was no visible writing, just like last time.
A soft, shaky exhale escaped me.
Grandma never wrote plainly. Never risked her truth sitting openly on paper. She had taught me how to read her hidden words, how to follow her secrets, how to see what no one else could see.
I stood and moved toward the living area. There was a small candle on the table, one Draven had used last night.
