The Tuesday mailbag hit the wood with a wet, heavy thud. Rain lashed the post office windows, blurring the grey Cornish granite of the village street into a smudge of charcoal and sea-foam. Alice Trevean stood alone behind the counter, the smell of damp canvas and old ink rising to meet her.
She worked with the practiced rhythm of a woman who had measured her life in stamps and string since the Admiralty telegram arrived two years ago. Her reddened hands moved through the stack, sorting local bills from the London circulars. The brass scales stood silent. In the quiet, the wall-clock ticked a full second behind the beat of her own heart.
Then she saw it. Resting atop a bundle of parish notices was a cream envelope addressed in a firm, sloping hand she knew better than her own. To the Occupant, Moor Cottage, Porthkerris. The ink was fresh, the script unmistakably David’s, but the date on the postmark was three days after he was declared lost at sea. Her breath hitched, the thin gold ring on the chain at her throat suddenly cold against her skin. Before she could reach for it, the weight of the remaining post shifted.
A heavy, sealed brown envelope was sliding out from the bottom of the mailbag.
