May 17, 1947
Ashford Manor
I woke up to another note.
This one wasn’t left on the sill or folded into the hollow of the tree.
It was slipped inside the front door.
No envelope. Just a single sheet of yellowed paper, folded once, and damp at the edges from the morning mist.
But this time, it wasn’t addressed to me.
It was addressed to Clara.
Not a name I recogni…
