“Did you know that sailors used to tattoo swallows on their skin?” Lily said, turning the envelope in her hands and inspecting the seal, with the careful reverence of someone who worked with old things. “One swallow for every five thousand miles sailed. It was a symbol of safe return. The idea was that if you drowned, the swallow would carry your soul home.” She set it down gently. “As a wax seal, it was sometimes used by families who had someone at sea. A symbol of waiting. Of faith that they’d come back.”
Edna was quiet for a moment. Her father had been at sea. She had never really known him—he had died before she turned four, lost somewhere in the North Atlantic during the war. Her mother had never spoken of him, not properly. There were no photographs, no letters Edna had ever seen. Just a silence that had lived in the house like a third person, always present, never introduced.
“Open it,” Edna said softly. Her hands were trembling slightly, and she did not want to tear it. Lily broke the seal with the careful precision of someone used to handling fragile things. Inside was a single folded sheet of paper, covered in handwriting so small and neat it looked like it had been embroidered rather than written.
