The lilies of the valley in Pasher have bloomed. The quiet night is so still it inspires awe. A man in a trench coat slips through the city without leaving a trace.
"Vidir, your letter."
Vidir came to the mailbox and studied its pristine white surface, its smooth walls without a single flaw. A letter, thin as a cicada's wing, lay inside. It was very old, so out of place amid the prosperous, beautiful life of today. Who could have sent it?
