Something green is hanging from my door. The wreath looks festive, like Christmas, but it wasn’t there this morning. The front walk bears the slightest imprint of someone’s boots, a pair much larger than I wear. Instead of heading around back to the kitchen like I normally would, I follow those snowy footsteps up my walk.
A mistletoe wreath is hanging from a hook on my door. It’s an old-fashioned arrangement, the perfect complement for the old Victorian house, and the sprig of holly berries glow blood red against the white of the door. In the center, stuck beneath a plaid bow, is a card.
I strip off my mittens and tug at the card. The entire wreath wobbles, then plunges to the ground. I balance it against one boot while I read the note.
For one speaker to the dead from another:
Did you
