“There’s a letter for you,” said the studio receptionist, handing over a plain white envelope with no return address.

Evelyn took the envelope with a furrowed brow. No stamp, no postmark. Only her name written in elegant cursive on the front: Evelyn.

She walked into her workspace, set down her bag, and stared at the envelope for a long moment before finally sitting down and slowly breaking the seal.

It wasn’t a business document.

Not an invitation. Not a congratulatory note.

But… a poem.

Handwritten. Bold black ink on crisp white linen paper. The lines felt like echoes from a nearly forgotten time—like her own voice.

> “When rain taps...