The paper was thick—the kind used by law offices that wanted their messages to feel permanent. Mia turned it over in her hands, eyes darting to the embossed seal in the corner. It hadn't been opened yet. The envelope was addressed to Sarah, full name spelled out like a summons.
Because that's what it was.
Mia had intercepted it just after sunrise. The post hadn't made it past the ground-level mailboxes yet. She hadn't planned it. But her legs had moved on their own when she saw the corner of the envelope peeking from the pile, the bold serif font whispering legal consequence.
She'd slipped it beneath her coat like contraband. Now, standing behind a dumpster in the alley two blocks over, the envelope trembled in her gloved fingers.
She read the sender line again.
Law Office of Harrington & Feld.
Custody Review Notification.
Her throat constricted. It wasn't just a letter. It was a door—one that led straight back into the machinery they'd barely outrun.
Wind tugged at her coat. The city around her woke slowly—early traffic, a siren in the distance, a street vendor unlocking a cart. The alley smelled of old metal and faint gasoline. A graffiti-smeared wall pressed in behind her.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the disposable lighter.
Flick.
Nothing.
She tried again. Her thumb scraped raw.
Flick.
A small flame danced to life.
Mia brought it to the edge of the envelope.
Her hands shook. For a second, she saw Sarah's face in her mind—tilted toward the window, haloed in midmorning light. Still fragile, still building the scaffolding of herself. Still trusting.
The flame touched paper.
It hesitated—then caught.
The fire moved in a jagged ripple, consuming the corner, then the name, then the words beneath. Mia held it as long as she could, until the heat kissed her skin. Then she let it drop.
The envelope twisted as it fell. Ash peeled away in strips. Orange flared against the grime of the alley.
The letter curled and blackened. Mia stepped back, shielding her eyes from the smoke. Tiny embers floated up like dying stars, dancing briefly before vanishing into air.
She stayed until all that remained was a brittle ring of black.
Then she kicked it into the base of the dumpster and covered it with a wet scrap of cardboard.
The air smelled of scorched ink.
Her chest hurt.
⸻
She returned home in silence. The apartment was still. Sarah was asleep in the next room, breaths slow and even. Mia didn't wake her.
She stood in the kitchen, still wearing her coat, staring at the refrigerator.
On it, a magnet held Sarah's latest pamphlet—from the job fair. The green one. Community gardens. She'd said she liked that one.
Mia reached out and smoothed the corner. Then leaned her forehead against the cool metal.
You did what you had to, she told herself.
But the echo inside her didn't answer.
⸻
Later, as evening fell, she walked past the alley again. She didn't plan to. Her feet simply followed the path.
The ashes were gone. Rain had swept them into the cracks.
But the scorch marks remained—like a ghost signature.
Mia looked up sharply.
Somewhere in the distance: a low, warning horn. Not constant. Not close. But steady.
She stepped back. The streetlights flickered on overhead. Windows lit in the tenements nearby.
A second horn blared.
Mia's breath caught.
A patrol car passed at the corner. Not slowing. Not stopping. Just rolling past.
She stayed still until it vanished.
Then turned sharply and walked away, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the city.
⸻
That night, Mia couldn't sleep. The letter still flickered behind her eyelids. In her mind's eye, it never finished burning. It hovered in that final moment—half blackened, half legible, smoke curling like a whisper from the edge.
She lay on the couch, blanket tucked up to her chest, staring at the ceiling. The radiator clanked intermittently. Outside, a car door slammed, followed by the faint echo of someone shouting down the block.
Her body ached from tension she hadn't noticed earlier.
In the quiet, every thought sharpened.
What if they sent another copy?
What if Sarah found it first?
What if someone had seen her in the alley?
She turned over, pressing her face into the cushion.
But the questions followed.
⸻
Morning came in soft gradients of gray. Mia got up before the alarm. She made coffee in silence, the bitter steam curling under her nose. In the bedroom, Sarah stirred.
Mia waited.
Soon Sarah emerged, hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped. "Is it Tuesday?" she asked groggily.
"Wednesday," Mia said, gently.
Sarah frowned, then shrugged. "Right."
She poured cereal without looking at the box.
Mia watched her sit down, the way she curled her legs beneath her, the way she rested her chin in her hand between bites.
"What's today's plan?" Sarah asked.
Mia forced her voice steady. "I thought we'd go over that green program again. Look at deadlines."
Sarah nodded slowly. "Okay."
Mia set a printed packet on the table. Sarah pulled it closer. The tips of her fingers brushed the title.
For a moment, the only sound was the quiet rustle of pages turning.
Then Mia said, "If something showed up. Something official. Would you want to know?"
Sarah blinked. "What kind of something?"
Mia hesitated. "Just… hypothetically. Letters. Notices."
Sarah stiffened slightly, spoon midair. Then she lowered it.
"I don't know," she said. "Depends what they said."
Mia studied her. "Even if it was bad?"
Sarah looked away. "If it was real, I guess I'd want to know. But sometimes knowing early doesn't change what you do. It just makes you scared sooner."
The words lodged in Mia's chest.
She reached for her mug. "That makes sense."
Sarah returned to the packet.
Mia didn't move. The fire from yesterday still burned at the back of her mind, ashes folding inward.
But the girl in front of her was steady.
Turning pages.
Holding her own weight.
For now, Mia would hold the rest.
She rose from her chair and walked to the window, pushing the curtain aside. Morning light crept in—thin and cold but certain.
Behind her, Sarah cleared her throat. "The garden program has an orientation day," she said. "Next Thursday."
Mia turned back. "Do you want to go?"
Sarah folded the page neatly. "I think I do."
A pause. Then she added, "I think it'll be good to plant something. Even if it takes a while to grow."
Mia's voice caught before she could answer.
Then, simply: "It will."
Outside, the street stirred to life.
And inside, without fanfare, a new resolve settled between them—unspoken, but unmistakably real.