Page 27 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I flip it open. Bills. A coupon for fishing gear. And… something wrapped in brown paper, tied with thin twine.
No sender name. No stamp.
Justmy name,in a hand I don’t recognize. Block letters, neat and deliberate.
A warning bell dings faintly in the back of my head.
I glance up and down the street. Empty, save for a lone pelican eyeing me from atop a lamppost like it knows all my secrets.
I shut the mailbox, lock the shop door behind me, and set the package on the counter. For a moment, I just stare at it.
Then I sigh. “Alright. Let’s see what you are.”
I tug at the twine and peel back the paper.
A book falls into my hands.
Slim. Worn. The cover is a deep navy cloth, soft with age. The gold-embossed title reads:Saltwater Sonnets—First Edition.
My heart stutters.
I know this book.
I’ve wanted it for years—ever since I first borrowed the library’s battered copy and fell in love with its rough-tide language and sea-stained metaphors. Only two hundred copies were printed in the original run. I’ve searched every rare book dealer within a hundred miles. No one has one. Not for any price I could pay.
And now… here it is.
In my hands.
No note. No signature.
But I know.
Iknowwho sent it.
The room tilts slightly. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
“Son of a—” I mutter.
No one else would know this meant something to me. No one else would go to this much trouble.
Drokhaz Vellum.
My pulse thrums a little too fast.
Part of me wants to hurl the book across the room.
Part of me wants to cradle it like a fragile treasure.
Instead, I set it carefully on the shelf behind the register and back away like it might bite.
“You are not thinking about him,” I tell myself firmly. “You are not.”
Except I am.
All damn afternoon, it needles at me—his unreadable expression when he thanked me after the tour. The faint curve ofhis mouth when that seagull bombed him. The way helistened,like every word mattered.
And now… this.
