The Letter That Came Late

Everyone always says the chosen one gets their letter at eleven. Mine came at fifteen, water-stained and four years late, addressed to a girl the magic had almost given up on.

I nearly threw it out. It looked like junk mail from a world that had clearly forgotten me. But the ink moved when I wasn’t looking, rearranging itself into my name, my real name, the one no one had ever spelled right.

Late, it turns out, is not the same as never. And a girl who has spent fifteen years being overlooked knows exactly how to move through a world that isn’t watching her.

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