The late afternoon sun warmed Amelia's face as she sat on the porch swing. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient oak in her yard, creating a soft, whispering sound that seemed to hum in harmony with the gentle creaks of the swing. Her fingers, stained with the vibrant hues of the watercolour paints she'd been using, idly fiddled with the chain. A half-finished landscape sat propped against the swing's arm, a scene of rolling hills and a perfectly blue sky. A delivery truck rumbled down the street, its noise barely registering in her consciousness.
She’d almost forgotten the painting; its muted colours and peaceful setting were the perfect embodiment of her mood. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and the faint, sweet perfume of blooming honeysuckle. She’d been enjoying the quiet of her afternoon, finally free of the constant demands of her busy life. Her shoulders were loose, her breathing slow and even. A bird landed on the bird feeder, and she watched it without a flicker of impatience.
Suddenly, the postman's footsteps broke the silence, and he deposited a single, crisp envelope in her mailbox. She sighed, her eyes following the postman's departure. She hadn't received personal mail in years. It was addressed to her in a familiar, slightly clumsy handwriting. Her brow furrowed slightly as she recognized the name.