Chapter Text
A young woman clutches a pile of school textbooks in her arm as she rushes to class, three envelopes perched precariously on the top of the wobbling stack. Her dark hair is a mess of wild curls around her face, and her breaths are ragged and quick. She’s late, practically running so she doesn’t miss whatever lecture or exam she has that morning.
She slows, however, outside of a black door with an ornate golden knocker. The woman almost stumbles, dropping a few of her books onto the steps outside. She kneels down as if to pick them up, glancing nervously at the passersby as she does. It only takes a few seconds for the stack to reach (almost) its full height again and for the young woman to stand up. She continues on her way, eyes a little less frantic than before.
There are three white envelopes, each sealed with red wax, left behind on the doorstep.
~~~
An elderly man with a kind smile and round silver glasses makes his way into his office. He carries a handful of files under one arm, his walking cane held in the other. The cane is as much an ornament as it is an aid, though the man himself would never admit it. He pauses at the front desk, smiling at the receptionist (a pretty young woman with short blonde hair and innocent eyes) and drops the files beside him as he talks to her.
They talk for a few minutes of small things, and then he pauses, face suddenly becoming stern and almost worried. From the middle of the pile of papers he brought with him, he pulls out an envelope. It’s white, a nice old-fashioned sort of envelope with a seal, exactly the sort of thing you’d expect a man like him to carry, and there’s a slight bulge in its centre that suggests something other than paper is inside.
The receptionist leaves the single white envelope beside her on the desk, continuing to work.
~~~
A man in a delivery uniform strides up the steps of a London apartment building, packages and envelopes in the bag at his side, making his usual rounds. He brushes past one of the building’s inhabitants - an older woman with greying hair - as he walks, but she barely acknowledges his presence. He has come to this building every day, more or less, for years, and as far as she’s concerned, he’s barely more than scenery.
He reaches the entrance, slipping each parcel into its respective mailbox with practised efficiency. This box is for Ms Mikleton in 2A, and this letter is for the Holleys in 4B, on and on like he’s done a thousand times. But today, the buzzer sounds when he’s finished, and he heads up into the building, to apartment 4A, a single package now held tightly in his hands. The person who let him up says nothing, and he doesn’t even know their name.
He leaves the white envelope just outside the door, laughter echoing from inside, and doesn’t bother to knock.
~~~
A teenage boy, with a coat pulled up close around his chin, leaves his mother’s apartment on his way to visit a friend. He’s bouncing back and forth on his heels with an unmistakeable sort of excited energy, one hand in his pocket to keep from fidgeting, and the other holding tight the white envelope he pulls from beneath his jacket. He makes his way quickly down the hallway.
The door he’s looking for is just like the others, unassuming, and he’s not sure why he has to deliver the package there of all places - the owner isn’t even anything special, quiet and kind but rarely at home after long hours. She’s home today, though, he thinks, so he makes sure he’s quick like he promised. He kneels in front of the door quickly, as if to tie his shoelaces, and then stands and knocks
When she opens the door, all she’ll find is a white envelope with a red seal, lying harmlessly on the carpet.
~~~
A businesswoman, neat hair piled in a bun on top of her head, makes one of many stops on her daily walk to work. But she doesn’t stop at the small cafe on the corner for her morning coffee, or at the library to return a borrowed book, or at a particularly interesting pop-up stand, but at a house. It’s a tall, imposing building, with greek columns and a sturdy black door, beyond even what someone of her means could afford.
She approaches slowly, glancing side to side as she does, and stops right in front of it. From her briefcase, she pulls an envelope, its soft, expensive paper matching the elegant design of the house before which she stands. She pushes the letter - or whatever is held within the envelope, as it seems too lumpy to be simply a letter - through the slot and turns away.
The envelope lies, red wax seal face down on the wooden floor, for hours until it is noticed and picked up.
~~~
A grandmother, having just dropped her grandchildren back home with her son, takes a detour down a secluded forest path in the middle of nowhere. Her old Mini was green once but has turned black with mud and dust and overuse, and it blends in almost perfectly to the darkened concrete and evergreen trees. In the seat beside her, where her only granddaughter had sat only minutes before, lies an envelope.
The envelope is white, maybe a little on the large side as envelopes go, with a red seal that even she finds old-fashioned and a name scrawled messily across the front. She reaches her destination all too quickly, pulling up in front of a quaint old house somewhere in the grey area between cottage and castle (a grey area she had not previously known to exist) and steps out, looking for somewhere to leave her charge.
In the end, the envelope lies inside a plant pot just beside the grand front entrance, half-covered by leaves.
~~~
A tall blond man with a sharp jaw and a small scar beneath his lip climbs out of a black car. He doesn’t bother to hide his intent as he strides up to the entrance of a plain-looking apartment building. A young girl of maybe fifteen sits on the steps, playing on her phone with one earbud in, but one glare from her sends her out into the street, clearing his way. He presses the button for the ground floor apartment, and after a moment they let him in.
He enters but continues climbing the grand staircase (the building, despite its shabby exterior, is old and beautiful) to the top floor instead. His steps sound like thunder on the old metal of the steps, and he holds a brown envelope casually in his left hand as his right hovers near the pocket of his jacket. He slides the envelope through the narrow gap beneath the door and lingers for a moment before he turns away.
The man on the other side of the door picks up the envelope as soon as it appears - he’s been waiting for it.