Saturday, March 21, 2015


The thin white envelope had no return address. In the corner, yesterday’s date was stamped in red ink. The postmark read Dover, the town along the jagged English coastline where hundreds of people caught the ferry to France every day. Nausea burned Evelyn’s throat as she ripped the letter open. A single piece of lilac-scented stationary fluttered to the grass and landed upside-down, followed by a photograph. Evelyn crumpled, scraping her head against the mailbox. She seized the photograph. Her eyes locked on her daughter’s. Zoe was smiling, perhaps even laughing. Alive. Thank God. Still alive.

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