I move to sit at my desk. My fingers trace over the curve of the “M” in Malcolm’s name, the paper smooth and cool under my fingertips. A smile curls my lips. I didn’t expect a letter this soon, and yet, here it is: proof that he is thinking about me. And that he is committed to ending the Tether.
Warmth glitters over my body like sunshine on a river. The idea of Malcolm, somewhere far away, pausing between bites of a greasy steak to pen this note, makes my heart flutter like a cluster of butterflies trapped in a jar. His words carry glimmers of hope and possibility in an otherwise dark situation, igniting a fire of determination within me that I refuse to let be extinguished by the Tether.
I feel a rush of gratitude that he wrote first, because I might have gotten cold feet and not reached out to him. With a deep breath, I sit at my desk to write back. The pen is a live wire in my hand, a conduit for the emotions that swirl inside me. Fear. Rebellion. Curiosity. Each word I write feels like a promise, a commitment to this journey to save ourselves. My heart races as I try to capture the thoughts and feelings running wildly through me, to let him know that I’m just as committed as he is to ending the Tether.
I finish the letter and sit back, taking a moment to steady myself before tossing the message Malcolm wrote into the fireplace so my family can never find it. I watch the blue flames greedily lick the letter. Its edges curl and darken, while I hold my note carefully.
When Malcolm’s letter is nothing more than ash, I reach for the piece of paper he gave me with instructions for summoning the magicmailbox. Chanting the spell, I focus on my desk, willing the mailbox to reappear.
A cool whisper of magic brushes past me, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon. My breath stills as the magic box shimmers into existence, its amber glow spreading like sunlight over water, splashing onto the desk in ripples of light. My heart pumps with the intensity of our mission. I can’t turn back now.
The lid creaks open, and golden light spills out, revealing the miniature city inside—a tiny world alive with magic. A sound like wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze fills the air as a fairy emerges, her presence overwhelming despite her tiny size.
Her sea-blue hair cascades in waves, each strand floating as if underwater. Tiny specks of light flicker within, like stars trapped in silk. Her brown face is sharp and angular, high cheekbones framing amber eyes that cut unnervingly deep. Across her full nose, freckles sparkle like stardust scattered.
Her dress, made of glowing pink petals and shimmering emerald leaves, shifts as if alive with her movements. A silver crown adorned with pink flowers rests on her head. She floats in the air, her translucent wings a flutter of motion, veins of molten gold running through them. Trails of glittering mist swirl behind her as she flies closer.
Her small palm extends toward me. “The price of postage is a secret,” she says.
I pause, her words feeling like a dare. “A secret?”
She nods, her head tilting, the light catching the gentle curve of her pointed ears. “A truth you’d rather keep hidden.”
My throat tightens, almost choking on words I’ve never spoken aloud. The room chills, and the beautiful mailbox feels more ominous than inviting. Gulping, I whisper, “When I was eight, after a fight, I wished my sister, Grace, was gone. Just for a second. And when she died… I couldn’t stop hating myself.”
The fairy doesn’t flinch, but the weight of her gaze feels like judgment. “Regret still lingers,” she replies softly. “But your payment is accepted.”
She reaches for the letter, her tiny fingers touching mine. Her touch iscool, like a breath of fresh air on a winter night. The pendant at her neck glows brighter as she takes the letter. It shrinks to fit into her palm.
The fairy flutters into the glowing box. Her gossamer wings leave trails of golden dust as she disappears into the amber light of the city inside. The lid slams shut with a soft click, and the glow fades, leaving the room dim and the mailbox gone.
The air feels colder now, like my ugly secret froze something inside. But I know Malcolm will read my response in mere moments. And the thought of him reading my words sends a wave of warmth through me. We’re conspirators connected by an invisible thread, one that grows stronger with every word exchanged.
So I hope my letter assures him that I’m committed to this mission:
Dear Malcolm,
Your letter made my night. I could almost picture you in South Philly, cheesesteak in hand, ketchup splattered red on your shirt. And, for the record, I’d probably be just as clumsy with it. My brother brought one home after he’d finished a scouting mission once, but it didn’t travel through time well. The bread was stale and hard.
Still, I can’t believe how much we have in common, like our love of greasy foods and Ferris wheels. Learning about you makes me even more sure that we can’t let this curse turn us against each other. And yes, we have to ride that Ferris wheel one day!
I was thinking about what you said about us getting out of this situation. It feels good to know I’m not alone in this fight. Your humor, your kindness—it’s not what I expected at all. I thought you’d be… I don’t know… more like a storybook villain, I guess. But you’re just you. And I like that.
The thought of us working together, figuring things out—it’s exciting. I want to know more about you too. Your optimism iscontagious, and I find myself looking forward to your letters, so keep them coming.
I’ll see you soon, Malcolm Davenport!
Malcolm replies to my note instantly. So I write him again. Before the night is over, we’ve probably worn out those fairies because we’ve exchanged ten letters with the help of that magical mailbox. I’m torn between enjoying his letters and fearing I can’t trust everything written in them. I want Malcolm and whatever this is that’s building between us to help me escape this curse. So I’ve been truthful in my notes, since we need to build some type of trust for this to work. But I still have to be careful not to give him anything that he can use against me if our plan fails, if we have to kill each other.
My last letter reads:
Dear Malcolm,
I couldn’t stop laughing when I read your note. The way you describe Philly and your family makes them sound really special. Battle training has left bruises on my skin and sorrow in my bones. I’m tired, Malcolm, not just from the physical ache but the emotional toll of the Tether.
Your words about losing Alex and your dad hit me hard. I felt the same raw emotions when I lost my sister. I’ve been thinking about Grace a lot lately. Life was jazz and jambalaya when she was here. Everything felt fresh and fun, just like the way you describe life in your time. But without Gracie, each sunrise is gray.
I totally understand your loneliness, and the guilt. But you were too young to protect anyone then. You shouldn’t carry the burden of being everyone’s protector now. None of this was your fault. But I love that you care so much. What happened? Do you know who killed them?
