The Queen Who Waits

The fifth Friday arrived the way a held breath arrives — slowly, and then all at once.

Zara had not slept well the night before. She had dreamed of the red post box at the corner, its mouth open like a hungry thing, swallowing her letter and giving nothing back. In the dream she kept knocking on the metal, asking it to return what she had given, and the box only rattled, empty and polite.