As I reached deep into the center of the largest bush, my shears caught on something white near the damp soil.
I reached down, my fingers brushing against the cold, wet grass, and pulled out a long business envelope.
It was damp and slightly curled from the morning mist, but the ink on the front was still perfectly legible.
The return address in the upper left corner belonged to a legal firm on LaSalle Street in Chicago.
The envelope was addressed to my sister, Margaret, at her Maple Street house, but the stamp had never been cancelled by the post office.
I turned the paper over in my hands, checking the seams of the flap.
It had been opened with a clean slice from a letter opener, the top edge of the paper sharp and straight.
The postmark on the front was dated three weeks ago, during the second week of April.
How it had come to rest in the middle of my lilac bushes, fifty yards from the road, was a question that made me freeze.
