Written in a hasty script, unformed and without curls, was a letter to Rena.


It was folded four ways on a pastel yellow paper. It had been spritzed lightly with some perfume and tied with a leather string, for a necklace. Hanging from the silver clasp, where the hollow of the collar bone would find it, was a small, iridescent purple marble. Perfectly round with an almost oil-rainbow effect running across its circumference.

The letter reads,

Dearest Rena

Luck is a choice, like happiness. And we find both these in those we share our life with, often. Anka and I are here for you.

The house is turning out nice, you have gifted Anastas with something special. I love that man madly, and to see him so at home, with such comfort, is ace, so here is a token, and I am thinking of you.

Love,

Maria.