The Mystery of the Old Postcard Three days before the arrival of a faded envelope that would change her life, Natasha Collins was standing on the balcony of her London flat. The night was thick and starless, the city lights of the Strand shimmering below. Inside, beyond the glass doors, Mark was on speakerphone, hashing out the final details of a deal. Natasha pressed her palm to the cold balcony window. She was tired—not from work, which she handled brilliantly, but from the air she’d been breathing for years. From the predictable rhythm of a life mapped out in five-year plans, where even a marriage proposal was a milestone to be ticked off. A lump of longing—or was it silent anger?—caught in her throat. She picked up her phone, opened WhatsApp, and began a message to an old friend she hadn’t seen in ages. Her friend, now mother of two, lived in a whirl of screaming children and perpetual chaos. The message was brief and breathless, nonsensical to anyone else: “You know, sometimes I feel like I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like—not this city fog, but the kind that hits the earth and smells of dust and hope. I just want a miracle. Something simple. Something made of paper that I can hold in my hands.” She didn’t expect an answer. It was a cry into the digital void, a ritual for peace of mind. After writing it, she deleted the message without sending. Her friend wouldn’t have understood, might have called it a crisis, or put it down to too much wine. A minute later, Natasha returned to the lounge, where Mark was ending his call. “All right?” he asked, glancing over. “You look tired.” “Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied. “Just needed some air. Craving something… I don’t know, fresh.” “In December?” Mark chuckled. “How about some sea air in Brighton? We’ll go in May—if the quarter closes well.” He turned back to his screen. Natasha’s phone buzzed with a client’s confirmation—just another to-do for tomorrow. No miracles. * Three days later, while sorting through the post, she caught her finger on an unfamiliar envelope. It slipped to the wooden floor—sturdy, rough, the colour of old parchment, with no stamps, only a pine branch and her address inked in a neat hand. Inside was a Christmas card—thick, embossed, gold glitter flaking onto her fingertips. “May your boldest dreams come true this year…” read the handwritten message that made her heart skip. The handwriting was familiar. It was Alex’s, the boy from her grandmother’s village on the coast, to whom she’d once promised everlasting love as a teenager. Every summer she’d spent there, building dens by the river and lighting August fireworks, exchanging letters during the school year. Then, the house had been sold, life had pulled them in different directions, and they lost touch. The address was her current London flat. But the card was dated 1999. How was that possible? A delayed delivery? Or was the universe answering her childlike cry for a simple, paper miracle? She cancelled calls and meetings, told Mark she needed to check a venue (he hardly looked up), and drove out of the city. To reach the little town by the sea would take three hours. She had to find the sender. Google told her there was just one little print shop—a place called Winter’s Charm. * Winter’s Charm was not what she’d pictured. Not a bright little gift shop, but a sanctuary of silence. The door creaked, letting her into a large, fragrant space—cedarwood, metal, and a hint of old varnish. The heat of the woodstove drifted in waves, brushing her cold cheeks. The owner worked at his bench, bent over what looked like a prehistoric press. He didn’t look up at the tinkling bell; only when she coughed did he straighten, joints clicking, and turn to face her. Not tall, broad-shouldered, in shirt sleeves, with peaceful eyes that offered neither curiosity nor politeness—just calm attention. “Is this your card?” Natasha set it on the counter. He approached, wiped his hands on his jeans, then held the postcard up to the light, as if it were a rare coin. “Ours,” he confirmed at last. “With the pine stamp—yes, 1999. How did it reach you?” “It arrived in London—must be a postal error,” Natasha said briskly, hiding how tightly everything inside her was wound. “I need to find the sender. I know the handwriting.” He looked her up and down: the sleek hair, expensive taupe coat that belonged to another world, the face that wasn’t hiding exhaustion behind perfect makeup anymore. “Why do you want the sender?” he asked quietly. “A quarter of a century’s passed. People are born and die in that time. They forget.” “I haven’t died,” she said, more fiercely than she meant. “And I haven’t forgotten.” He studied her for a long, searching moment. Then he gestured to the corner—tea, he said, would warm her up, “even the London variety.” No need for answers—he made strong tea in battered mugs. So it began. * Three days in that coastal town gave Natasha back parts of herself she’d lost—the peace of snow sliding off a roof, the warmth of fire that glowed rather than flashed, the quiet presence of someone who lived by the honest work of his hands. The printer, Alex, still lived in his parents’ old house, where the floorboards creaked with memory and the scent of jam and woodsmoke hung in the air. He showed her his father’s old engravings—deer, snowflakes—and explained how the shimmering ink was mixed so it wouldn’t flake. He was like his house: sturdy, a little weathered, brimming with humble treasures. He told her how his own father, after falling in love with his mother, sent her a postcard that was lost in the post—love to the void, as he called it, hopeless but beautiful. She asked, “Do you believe in that? The hopeless sort?” He shrugged. “He did find her in the end, and they were together for years. If there’s love, anything’s possible. Otherwise—I believe in what you can hold in your hands. This press. This work. The rest is smoke.” There was no bitterness in his tone; only the acceptance of a craftsperson who knew material’s limits. Natasha had always fought and bent the world to her will. Here, her battles seemed pointless—snow fell when it wished, and Alex’s dog slept where he pleased. Some quiet connection grew between them—hers was the restless energy and daring he missed, she found in him tranquillity and authenticity. He saw the child in her, longing for magic; she saw in him a guardian of craft, time, and silence. With him, her constant background anxiety faded, like the sea after a storm. When Mark called on the third day, Natasha was watching Alex from the window as he split logs with calm, practiced strength. “Where are you?” Mark’s voice, cold and controlled, came down the line. “Pick up a tree on your way home—the artificial one’s broken. Fitting, isn’t it?” Natasha looked at the real fir, strung with old-fashioned glass baubles. “Yeah,” she murmured, “very fitting.” She hung up. * The truth emerged on New Year’s Eve. Alex handed her a brittle sketch from his dad’s old notebook—the text from that very postcard. “It wasn’t your Alex who wrote it,” he said quietly. “It was my dad. To my mum. It never got delivered. History, as they say, goes round in circles.” The magic shattered like glitter. No mystical message from the past—just fate’s cruel irony. Her chase after yesterday was a beautiful delusion. “I should go,” Natasha whispered, not meeting his eyes. “Everything’s there—wedding, contracts.” Alex nodded. He made no move to stop her. He stood in his domain of paper and memory—a man who could send warmth in envelopes but was powerless against the cold from another world. “I understand,” he said gently. “I’m no magician, just a printer. I make things you can hold, not castles in the air. But sometimes… sometimes the past sends us not a ghost, but a mirror—to show who we could become.” He turned back to his press, letting her leave. Natasha picked up her bag and keys, thumbed her phone—a slender link to the reality of calls, KPIs, a convenient, silent marriage to a man who measured life in money. At the door, her eyes fell on the cards on the counter—the old one, and a fresh-printed one Alex must have meant to give her, bearing the pine stamp and a new message: “To have courage.” Natasha understood. The true miracle wasn’t the antique card, but this instant—the choice before her, sharp as winter air. She couldn’t step into his world, nor drag him into hers. But she’d never return to Mark. She walked out into the crisp, star-spangled night. And didn’t look back. *** A year passed. December returned. Natasha never went back to the London event circuit. She broke up with Mark, and opened her own boutique agency, specialising in thoughtful, intimate events—ones with soul, with real paper invitations printed by a certain man by the coast. Her life wasn’t slower, but it was purposeful. She learned the value of silence. Winter’s Charm now offered creative retreats. Alex, coached by Natasha, handles the odd online order—but he’s selective. His cards are becoming known, business ticking over, but the process stays the same. They don’t chat every day, just for work. But recently, Natasha received a card in the post. The stamp was a soaring bird. The message was just two words: “Thank you—for courage.” The Mystery of the Old Postcard

Author Emily TaylorReading 12 minViews 1

The Mystery of the Old Postcard

Three days before the yellowed envelope entered her life, Alice Turner was standing on the balcony of her London flat. The night was thick and black, starless. Below, the lights of Oxford Street shimmered. Inside, behind the glass door, her fiancé James was on speakerphone, discussing the details of a deal.

Alice pressed her palm against the cold balcony glass.

She was exhausted. Not by workshe managed that brilliantly. No, she was tired of the very air she’d been breathing for years now. The predictability of her life, where even James’s proposal had felt like a logical step in a five-year plan, suffocated her hope. A lump was caught in her throatwhether from longing or silent rage, she couldn’t say. Alice pulled out her phone, opened her messenger, and started typing to an old friend she hadnt seen in ages. Her friend had just had her second child and lived in the chaos of nappies, loud toys, and wild schedules.

Her message was short, impulsive, almost nonsensical to anyone else: Do you ever feel like youve forgotten how real rain smells? Not the city rubbish, but real rain, hitting earthsmelling of dust and hope. I want some kind of miracle. Something simple, on paper. Something to hold.

She didnt expect an answer. It was just a cry into the digital void, a ritual for her own peace. She deleted the message, not even sending it. Her friend would misunderstand, assume she was having a meltdown or had been drinking. A moment later, Alice was back in the sitting room, where James was finishing his call.

All right? James looked over, quick and concerned. You look tired.

Yeah, Im fine, Alice smiled. Just needed some air. Wish I could find something fresh, somehow.

In December? James grinned. Fresh air at the seaside. Maybe May, if the quarter goes well.

He turned back to his tablet. Alice picked up her smartphone from the table. A client had confirmed a meetingno miracles there. With a sigh, she started getting ready for bed, mentally building tomorrows to-do list.

***

Three days later, sorting her post, her finger snagged on the corner of a mysterious envelope, which slipped and landed on the wooden floor. The envelope was thick, rough, the colour of old parchment. No stamps, just an ink stamp with a sprig of holly and her address. Inside was a New Years cardnot glossy and mass-produced, but sturdy, textured, with embossed gold glitter that clung to her fingers.

May your boldest dreams come true this year handwritten in a script that made Alices heart jolt.

Those letters seemed familiar. It was the handwriting of Tomthe boy from Little Pines, her childhood love. Every summer during her school years, shed stay with her grandmother in that quiet village. She and Tom built dens by the stream, sent fireworks into August skies, wrote long letters between holidays. After her grandmother sold the cottage, they drifted to universities in different cities and lost touch.

The card bore her current address, yet was dated 1999. How? Some Royal Mail mishap? Or was it the universe answering some half-forgotten part of her, her longing for a tangible kind of miracle?

Within the hour, Alice had cancelled her meeting and two calls, told James she had to check a venue (“Fine, love,” he said, not looking up), and set off in her Mini, determined to find whoever had sent the card.

***

It was three hours drive to Little Pines. She had to find the sender. Google showed a tiny printworks still existed in the village.

***

Frost & Co Printshop wasnt what Alice had pictured. Shed expected a souvenir shopcramped, messy, scented with cheap wax. Instead, she entered a space brewed in silence.

The door, groaning softly, opened to a wide room where the air felt warm and sweet, like ripe fruit. The air smelled of wood, metal, maybe a touch of varnish, certainly the distinct scent of an old stove. Its heat drifted out in waves, brushing Alices cold cheeks.

The printmaker stood with his back to her, hunched over a low workbench, hands sorting through the innards of some heavy, ancient press that looked like a relic from the industrial age. The clink of his tools was the only sound. He didnt look up at the bell. Alice cleared her throat.

He straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra. He was short and solid, in a rolled-up check shirt, his expression unremarkable but for his calm eyesneither curious nor obliging, just steady. Waiting.

Is this your card? Alice set the card on the counter.

He approached, unhurried. Wiping blue-stained hands on his trousers, then lifting the card to the light, as if it were some rare coin.

Its ours, he said. Holly stamp… Thatd be 99. Whered you get it?

It turned up in London. Probably a sorting error, Alice tried to sound businesslike, though her heart was pounding. I need to find the sender. The handwriting I recognise it.

He examined her, head to toe. The immaculate bob, posh oatmeal coatout of place here, the immaculate make-up doing nothing to hide her exhaustion.

Why do you want the sender? he asked. A quarter centurys gone. People are born, die, and forget in that time.

Im not dead, she blurted, voice unexpectedly harsh. And I havent forgotten.

He looked at her for a long, discerning moment, as if reading some secret message behind her words. Then he gestured towards the kettle in the corner.

Youre freezing. Have some tea. Warms you upand your wits too, even in London.

Without waiting for an answer, he poured boiling water into battered mugs.

Thats how it all began.

***

Three days in Little Pines felt like a kind of homecoming for Alice. She moved out of Londons roar and into stillness, where you could hear snow slip from the roof, out of blue light screens into the gentle flicker of a fire. The printmaker, whose name was Edward, asked nothing, simply welcomed her into his quiet world. He lived alone in his parents cottage, where the floorboards murmured under every step and the smell of the fire, jam, and old books hung in the air.

He showed her his fathers old printing blockscopper plates with engraved deer and snowflakesand explained how to mix glitter so it wouldnt rub off on your hands. He was like his house: solid, a little worn but full of understated treasures. He told her how his father, smitten with his mother on first sight, had once posted her a card to her old addresswhich was lost forever.

Love sent into the ether, he said, staring into the flames, Beautiful, just a bit hopeless.

Do you believe in that? asked Alice. The hopeless sort?

Well, my father found her in the endthey spent their whole lives together. So, love can manage anything. Otherwise, I only believe in what I can holdthis press, this house, my work. All else is smoke.

There was no bitterness in his words. Just the calm acceptance of a craftsman, patient with the stubborn nature of his materials. Alice had always fought the material. Here, resistance seemed pointless. Snow fell when it chose. Arthur, Edwards dog, slept wherever he fancied.

They grew strangely close. Two solitary souls piecing together the things they didnt have: in her, he found a hurricane of life and courage, in him, she found peace and something real. He saw not the successful London darling but the girl still frightened of the dark and longing for a miracle. She saw not a man stuck in the past, but a guardianof memories, skills, quiet. With him, her background tension faded, as the sea calms after a storm.

The moment James called, Alice was at the window, watching Edward split logs in the yard. He did it easily, every log making a crisp, satisfying sound.

Whereve you got to? James asked, cool and flat on the line. Pick up a Christmas tree on the way homeour artificial ones snapped. Rather apt, isnt it?

Alice gazed at Edwards living green tree, adorned with old glass baubles.

Yes, she answered softly. Quite apt.

And hung up.

***

The truth arrived on the third day, just before New Years Eve. Edward quietly handed her a faded sketch from his fathers old album. The original wording from that card.

I found it, Edward said, his voice subdued. It wasnt your Tom who wrote that. It was my dad. Meant for my mother. Never reached her. History repeats, you see?

The magic fell away, like scattered glitter. There was no mystical connection, just fates cruel irony. Alice felt the cold inside her chestthe desperate dash for the past had been an illusion.

I need to go, she managed, not meeting his eyes. My entire lifes back there. The wedding. The contracts.

Edward nodded. He didnt try to stop her. Just stood, surrounded by his world of paper and memoriesa man who knew how to keep warmth in envelopes, but who couldnt stop the chill from another world.

I understand, he said. Im no magician. Just a printer. I make things for holding, not castles in the air. Sometimes the past sends us not a ghost but a mirror, so we see who we might have been.

He turned back to his press, letting her go.

Alice grabbed her bag, her keys, her phoneher only rail back to reality, to a world of alarms, KPIs, and the comfortable silence of a marriage counted in pounds.

Her hand was on the doorknob when she glimpsed the old card again on the counter. And beside it, a freshly printed oneEdwards handiworkhe hadnt given her. It bore the same holly stamp, but was inscribed, May you find courage.

She finally understood. The miracle wasnt in the card from the past, but in this very moment, in this sliver of clarity lighting up her choice. She couldnt belong in his world, nor he in hers. But she wasnt going back to James either.

Alice stepped out into the cold, starlit night without looking back.

***

A year has passed. December is here again.

Alice never returned to the events industry in London. She broke it off with James, then opened a small agency, arranging mindful gatheringsintimate, thoughtful, full of soul and handcrafted detail. She uses only paper invitations, printed in a little workshop in Little Pines. Her life isnt slower, but it matters now. She has learned the value of quiet.

The Frost & Co printshop now hosts creative weekends. Edward, with her help, accepts online ordersafter sifting them himself. His cards are a little more famous now, business steady. Their process, though, hasn’t changed.

They dont message every day, only for work. But the other day, Alice received a card in the post. A bird in flight, stamped on the front. Two words: Thank you. And beneath, in a firm, familiar hand: For your courage.Alice stood by her window, card in hand, while dusk pressed against the panes and a soft rain began to fall. The scent of itearthy, sharpcarried her back to the balcony and that moment of reaching for something real. She smiled, not wistful but quietly triumphant, the way people do when their courage has finally outweighed their longing.

She turned the card over, set it beside her favorite mug, and let her phone rest, silent and forgotten. In her new life, there were still deadlines, difficult clients, small heartbreaks. But her world now contained days spent outdoors arranging wildflowers, laughter echoing in print-stained rooms, and evenings shared over slow, thoughtful dinners in the glow of firelightsometimes with Edward, always with newfound friends.

Each card she sent out carried not just ink and paper, but fragments of her own transformationa little more hope, a little more daring, pressed into every page. And each one that returned, from far-off cities or local hands, reminded her how easily a life could be reshaped by answering an unexpected invitation.

On the last day of the year, as bells chimed somewhere in the dark and the world seemed hushed, Alice opened her door to the night. She breathed deep. For the first time in a long time, she felt the rain, real and whole, washing the old shadows away. She stepped outsideno umbrella, no plancatching the drops on her skin, ready for whatever miracle the new year, and her own boldness, might bring.

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val Struggled to Open the Garden Gate, Slowly Shuffled to the Door, Fumbled with the Old Rusty Lock, and Stepped into Her Cold, Untended Cottage, Sitting Down by the Lifeless Hearth It Smelled of Emptiness, Though She’d Only Been Away Three Months—Cobwebs Hung from the Ceilings, the Antique Chair Creaked in Protest, and the Wind Howled in the Chimney, As if the Cottage Was Scolding Her: “Where Have You Been, Mistress? Whom Did You Leave Me With? How Are We Supposed to Survive the Winter Now?!” “Hold on, my dear, just a moment—let me catch my breath… I’ll light the fire soon, we’ll get warm…” Just a Year Ago, Granny Val Bustled Around Her Old Cottage, Whitewashing, Painting, Hauling Water—Her Petite, Spry Figure Bowing Before Icons, Busy at the Hearth, Flitting Through the Orchard Where She Was Forever Sowing, Weeding, and Watering The Cottage Loved Its Mistress Back—Floors Creaked Joyfully, Windows and Doors Flung Open at Her Touch, the Oven Baked Pies as if Cheered On by Her Presence: It Was Good, Val and Her Old Cottage Together Widowed Early, She Raised Three Children—One a Merchant Navy Captain, Another a Military Colonel, Both Living Far from Home, Rarely Visiting Only Her Youngest, Tamara, Stayed in the Village, Chief Agronomist, Always at Work; She’d Pop In on Sundays, Fill the House with Pies and Laughter—Then Another Week Apart Her Comfort Was Her Granddaughter, Sweet Svetlana, Who Truly Was Raised by Granny’s Hands And What a Beauty She Became! Tall and Proud, With Grey Eyes and Thick Fair Hair Flowing Past Her Waist—Village Boys Were Spellbound Whenever She Walked By, Her Elegance Remarkable for a Country Girl Granny Val Was a Looker in Her Own Youth, But Comparing Old Photos to Svetlana’s Grace—It Was Shepherdess to Queen Smart as Well; She Finished Agricultural College in the City, Returned to Work in the Family Village as an Economist, Married the Local Vet, and the Young Couple Was Given a New Brick House—A Proper Little Manor for Those Times But While Granny’s Cottage Was Surrounded by a Lush Garden, Svetlana’s New Place Had Little More Than Three Lonely Stalks—She Was Not Made for Gardening, Cocooned by Granny from Every Draught and Chore Then Came Her Own Little Boy, Vanya—No Time for Gardens Now Svetlana Begged Granny to Move In: “Come live with us, it’s warm, spacious, no need to stoke a fire…” When Granny Turned Eighty, Her Health Faltered—Her Lively Legs Refused Their Duty; She Finally Agreed to Move But After a Few Months, She Overheard Svetlana: “Granny, I love you, but you just sit! You’ve always worked, and now you rest while I manage everything—I hoped you’d help…” “But, sweetheart, I can’t anymore… my legs won’t carry me…” “Hmph… Funny how you aged as soon as you moved in…” Soon After, Granny Was Sent Back to Her Cottage—Her Failure to Help Weighing Heavy on Her Spirit Her Steps Grew Feeble, Crossing from Bed to Table Became a Feat, Her Beloved Church Now Out of Reach Father Bernard, Their Vicar, Came to Visit His Once-Energetic Parishioner—He Found Her Bundled in a Worn Cardigan and Scarf, Writing Letters to Her Sons: “I’m doing ever so well, my dearest boy—everything’s grand, thank God!” Yet the Pages Were Blotched with What Could Only Be Tears Father Bernard Drafted the Neighbour, Anna, to Look After Her; Anna’s Husband, Old Sailor Uncle Pete, Would Bring Granny to Church by Sidecar When He Could Meanwhile, Svetlana Fell Ill—She’d Long Blamed Her Stomach, But It Turned Out to Be Cancer. In Six Months, She Was Gone Her Husband, Lost in Grief, Took to Drinking at Her Grave, Little Vanya Left Dirty and Alone Tamara Took the Boy In, But Her Agronomist Duties Left No Time for Childcare—So Vanya Was Sent to Boarding School Determined Not to Let Her Great-Grandson Go, Granny Val Arrived with Uncle Pete’s Help: “I’ll take Vanya myself—he won’t go to a home while I live.” Neighbours Judged Her, Wondering If She’d Lost Her Mind—How Could an Old Woman Care for a Young Boy? Father Bernard Braced for the Worst—But Found the Cottage Warm and Clean, Vanya Listening to Fairy Tales, and Granny Dancing Around the Kitchen, Baking Treats for the Vicar’s Family Later, Father Bernard Told His Wife, Alexandra, Who Pulled Out Her Old Blue Journal, and Read the Story of Her Own Great-Grandmother—Who On Her Deathbed, Hearing Her Newborn Great-Grandchild Cry, Got Up, Soothed the Baby, and Decided She Simply Couldn’t Die Just Yet As the Old Song Goes: “It’s Far Too Soon for Us to Pass—There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home!” His Wife Concluded, Smiling: “My Great-Granny Vera Loved Me Too Much to Go. She Lived Another Ten Years, Helping My Mother Raise Me—Her Beloved Great-Granddaughter.” Father Bernard Smiled Back—For Clearly, There Will Always Be Work to Be Done at Home

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before a yellowed envelope arrived to change her life, Natalie Sokolov stood on the balcony of her London flat. The night was dense and dark, with no stars to be seen. The lights of Regent Street glimmered below. Inside, beyond the glass doors, Mark was on speakerphone, negotiating the finer points of yet another deal. Natalie pressed her palm against the cold glass. She was exhausted—not by work (she had always excelled at that), but by the very air around her. The predictability suffocated her, as if even Mark’s proposal had been scheduled into a five-year plan. An ache of longing—or perhaps mute rage—clung to her throat. Pulling out her phone, Natalie opened the messenger and typed to an old mate she hadn’t seen in ages. Her friend had just had her second baby, submerged in the happy chaos of family life. The message was little more than a sigh: “You know, I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like. Not this city drizzle, but the kind that hits the earth—smelling of dust and hope. I want a small miracle. Something simple, something you can hold in your hands.” She never sent it—deleted the words in a heartbeat. Her friend wouldn’t have understood, would’ve thought she was having a crisis, or had too much wine. A minute later, she was back with Mark, who wrapped up his call and glanced at her. “Everything alright? You look tired.” “Fine,” Natalie said with a smile. “Just needed some fresh air.” “In December?” He grinned. “Go to Brighton in May, if we hit our targets this quarter.” He turned back to his screen. Natalie’s phone flashed—a client confirming a meeting. No miracles. She sighed and mentally ran through tomorrow’s to-do list as she readied for bed. *** Three days later, sorting the post, her finger caught on the corner of an envelope she didn’t recognise. It fell to the floor: thick, rough parchment, yellowed with age, bearing no stamp—just an old ink stamp of a holly branch and her address. Inside, a New Year’s card. Not glossy shopbought, but warm, embossed cardboard, sparkling with gold dust that scattered on her hands. “May the new year bring your boldest dreams to life…” read the handwriting that made Natalie’s heart skip. She recognised the script. It was Alex’s—her childhood sweetheart from a sleepy Cotswolds village. Summers at her Gran’s cottage, first love, riverside dens, fireworks in August, and notes exchanged from school to school. But Gran had sold the house, they’d grown up and lost touch, each swept to different corners of the UK. Her own address, yet dated 1999. A Royal Mail hiccup? An answer from the universe to her silent plea for a simple, tangible miracle? In a flash, Natalie cancelled her meetings—told Mark she needed to scope a location for a client—got in her car. To the Cotswolds, three hours away, to find the sender. Google suggested there was a small letterpress workshop in the village. *** She expected a souvenir shop—cluttered, bright, thick with candle smell. Instead, she stepped into quiet: air sweet and heavy with wood, ink, and something bitter, maybe old varnish. A real stove puffed warmth into the room. The owner stood at a workbench, tinkering with a hulking, antique press. His back to her, sleeves rolled, solid, calm. “Is this your card?” Natalie laid it on the counter. He took a moment, wiping his hands on his trousers before lifting the card to the light as though it were a rare coin. “Yes,” he said, voice steady. “That’s our holly stamp. 1999. Where did you find it?” “It arrived yesterday, in London. Must be a postal error. I need to find the sender. I know the handwriting.” He looked at her—polished haircut, designer but out-of-place camel coat, tiredness she couldn’t quite hide. No curiosity, just patient waiting. “Why does it matter? It’s a generation gone. People get born, die, forget.” “I’m not dead,” Natalie snapped, surprised at her own fierceness. “And I haven’t forgotten.” Watching her quietly, the man gestured toward a kettle in the corner. “You’re frozen. Tea might thaw you out. Even for Londoners.” He poured them mugs with chipped handles, no further questions. *** Three days in the old village felt like stepping out of time—out of the rush of London, into the hush where even snow falling from the eaves made itself heard. From screens to glowing embers, from bustle to the light of memory. The man, Alex (the printmaker, not her childhood Alex), didn’t press for stories. He simply shared his world. He lived alone in the family home, creaking floors, the sweet scent of jam, and timeworn books. He showed her engraved copper plates, explained how they mixed glitter, how his father had once mailed a card of love that never arrived. “Love sent into emptiness,” he said, eyes on the fire. “Beautiful. Hopeless.” “Do you believe in hopeless love?” Natalie asked. “My dad found her eventually. They lived together for years. If it’s real, anything’s possible. As for the rest—I only believe in what I can hold. This press. This house. My craft. The rest is smoke.” No bitterness—just a craftsman accepting the grain of his material. Natalie, always used to fighting her surroundings, found the stillness here impossible to resist. The snow fell when it wanted. The printmaker’s dog napped where it pleased. A strange closeness bloomed: two lonely souls seeing each other clearly. He didn’t see her as a high-flying city girl, she didn’t see him as stuck in the past, but as a keeper—of time, of tradition, of silence. Her anxiety, constant in the city, faded in his presence. The day Mark called, Natalie stood by the window watching the printmaker, Alex, chopping wood in the snowy yard—each log splitting with crisp, satisfying regularity. “Where are you?” Mark’s voice was cold as ever. “Pick up a real tree on your way back—the fake one broke. Fitting, isn’t it?” Natalie looked at the real tree sparkling in the living room. The old glass ornaments. “Yes,” she whispered. “Very fitting.” And hung up. *** The truth surfaced on New Year’s Eve. Alex found an old sketch in his father’s album—the original wording from the mystery card. “It wasn’t your Alex,” he said quietly. “It was my dad. To my mum. The card never arrived. History loves going in circles.” The magic scattered like glitter: no mystical connection, just fate’s twist. Her go-back-in-time fantasy was a beautiful misreading. “I should go,” Natalie murmured. “I’ve got… everything. Wedding. Contracts.” Alex nodded. He didn’t try to hold her back—only stood amid his universe of paper and memory. A man who preserved warmth inside envelopes, powerless against the cold of another world. “I understand,” he said. “I’m not a magician. Just a printmaker. I make things you can hold, not castles in the air. But sometimes… the past doesn’t send us a ghost, but a mirror. So we see who we might have been.” He turned back to his press. Natalie clutched her bag, keys, her phone—her only link to the city, to cover calls, KPIs, and a comfortable, quiet marriage to a man who measured everything in money. She’d reached the door when her eye landed on another card, fresh from the press. The same holly stamp, but a new message: “May you find courage.” Natalie understood. The miracle wasn’t in the card from the past. The miracle was in this moment. In the power to choose. To see the path. She couldn’t stay in his world—but she wasn’t going back to Mark’s. She walked out into the cold, starry English night, never looking back. *** A year passed. December in London again. Natalie never returned to the events industry. She left Mark, launched a boutique agency focused on “thoughtful” events—warm, intimate, attentive to detail. She uses paper invites, printed in a small workshop in the Cotswolds. Her life is still fast but now purposeful. She’s learning the art of silence. The “Snowflake” workshop hosts creative weekends. Alex finally accepts online orders, carefully chosen. His cards are more popular, but the craft is unchanged. They don’t write often, only for work. But last week, Natalie received a card in the post. This time, stamped with a flying bird, it read simply, “Thank you for your courage.”

Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage with a full bucket of pig feed, her face stormy as she passed her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the old well for three days running. He’d decided he wanted it carved and fancy—beautiful, as though he had nothing better to do! She bustled about looking after house and livestock while he stood with a chisel in hand, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What kind of husband had God sent her? He never uttered a tender word, never slammed his fist on the table, just quietly worked away. On rare occasions, he’d simply glance at her and gently run his hand along her thick, honey-blonde braid—his sole display of affection. Oh, how Annie longed for more: for pet names and sweet nothings… Lost in thoughts of her lonely woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog. Instantly, Henry darted over, caught his wife, and shot the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, Buster—you’ll end up tripping the missus.” Buster lowered his eyes, tail tucked, and shuffled off to his kennel. Annie was amazed, not for the first time, at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d asked Henry once about it, and he’d just replied, “I love animals, and they love me right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love—love that swept her off her feet, with whispered words at night and flowers on her pillow each morning. But Henry was always so reserved, barely affectionate… Sometimes she even doubted whether he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” came a cheery voice over the fence—it was Victor, their neighbour. “Still fussing with your well, Henry? Who needs all those carvings anyway?” “I want our children to grow up with an eye for beauty,” Henry replied. “Well, you’ll need to have some first!” Victor winked at Annie. Henry’s eyes grew sad; Annie hurried inside, embarrassed. She wasn’t in a rush to have kids—after all, she was still young, beautiful, and maybe wanted to live for herself a little longer. Besides, her own husband was hardly the dashing type. And Victor—tall, broad-shouldered—now, he could make your heart flutter! He’d greet her near the gate, voice gentle as summer rain: “My little dove, my darling sun…” Annie’s knees would turn to jelly, but she’d always run from him. When she married Henry, she’d vowed to be faithful; her parents, together for decades, had taught her to cherish her marriage. Yet why did she yearn to catch Victor’s eye just for a moment? Next morning, as Annie led the cow to pasture, she ran into Victor at the gate. “Annie, dearest, why do you keep avoiding me? Are you shy? I can never get enough of your beauty—it makes my head spin.” He whispered, “Come see me at dawn. When your Henry leaves for fishing, just slip over, and I’ll shower you with all the love you could wish for.” Annie flushed, cheeks burning, heart racing… but hurried past him in silence. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t stop thinking about him—Victor, with his smouldering gaze, promising her all she ever wanted. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to cross that line. Not yet… Maybe never. There were still long hours till dawn. That evening, Henry fired up the bathhouse—and even invited Victor to join. Victor happily agreed, saving himself the trouble of heating up his own. The two men swapped stories, laughing and thwacking each other with birch branches. After their steam, they relaxed in the changing room; Annie poured them a jug of homemade cider and arranged snacks, then dashed off for some pickled cucumbers in the cellar. As she came back and reached the door, she overheard voices from inside and paused: “Why so hesitant, Henry?” Victor said quietly. “Come along next time—you won’t regret it. Widows like those, they’ll smother you with affection… And the beauties there! Unlike your Annie—she’s a plain little mouse.” “No, friend,” came Henry’s quiet yet steady reply, “I want none of that. I won’t even think of it. And my Annie isn’t a little mouse—she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. There’s not a flower or berry to match her. When I look at her, I can’t even see the sun—just her eyes, her slender form. My love for her is like a river in flood. I just ache because I can’t speak the words to tell her how much I love her. She feels hurt, I know, and I’m frightened of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her—I couldn’t even breathe…” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear sliding down her cheek. Suddenly she lifted her head, strode in, and loudly declared, “Victor, go keep those widows company—we’ve got more important things to do here at home. We don’t yet have anyone to gaze on the beautiful carvings Henry’s making. Forgive me, my dearest, for my foolish thoughts—for my blindness. Happiness was in my hands, and I nearly missed it. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time…” And at dawn the next day, Henry didn’t go fishing.