It started with a letter.
No stamp. No address. Just her name.
Sarah — written in perfect, careful cursive on the front of the envelope.
Ace found it on the porch at dawn, resting beside a cup of coffee he didn't make.
He brought it inside without waking her.
But the moment his fingers touched the seal…
The mirror in the hallway cracked.
Not shattered.
Just a single, hairline fracture down the center—quiet and precise, like a whisper made solid.
Ace stared at it, pulse ticking louder than the morning wind outside.
"Sarah," he called gently.
She came down the stairs barefoot, still half-asleep, and stopped when she saw the envelope in his hands.
The color drained from her face.
"That handwriting…" she said.
Ace looked at her.
"What is it?"
Sarah reached out, hand trembling slightly as she touched the envelope.
Then whispered:
"It's mine."