It was a Wednesday when Clara first noticed that her postbox had changed.
She hadn’t expected to check the mail; the morning had been a hurried blur, a cup of coffee spilled over the counter as she tried to balance the work email that wouldn’t stop pinging with a pile of laundry she hadn’t folded in three days. The usual, the ordinary. She’d grabbed her coat, zipped it halfway, and without a thought, jogged to the front door.
It was a routine she could do with her eyes closed.
