The owl arrived on a rainy night, just as you were about to extinguish the last candlelight and surrender to the gentle lull of sleep. You barely noticed the soft knock of its talons against your window over the relentless drumming of raindrops, but something—perhaps fate, or merely curiosity—compelled you to investigate.

The letter wasn’t yours, nor was it intended for you. Yet, as the damp envelope bore no return address, and the owl refused to budge until it was taken from its leg, you had no choice but to examine it further.

The parchment was old but impeccably neat. It smelled faintly of mint, apples, and rain—a scent that stirred a flicker of something undefinable in the depths of your memory. The handwriting was sharp and precise, every word carved into the page with calculated effort.

"To Whomever Seems Fit, or Perhaps My Insufferable Pen-Pal, This is the last time I will entertain such thoughtless trivialities. Your tendency for grammatical slaughter aside, perhaps you will consider maintaining a degree of decorum in your correspondence next time—or simply ceasing this endeavor altogether."

Your brow furrowed. Who writes to their pen-pal like that? More curiously, why did the owl choose you as its unlikely courier?

The signature was only an initial: D. Whoever this letter was meant for, they had struck a nerve. Against better judgment, your fingers itched for a quill. You scrawled your reply on the back of the parchment and returned it to the owl, still waiting patiently as though it knew this peculiar conversation had just begun.

The next letter arrived two days later, heralded again by the rain and an all-too-familiar sense of unease.

“I don’t recall granting you the honor of continuing this absurd charade. Who are you, exactly, to presume yourself worthy of a reply? And how did you intercept my owl? No one—not even the Ministry—knows where I live.”

There was no initial this time, only an indignant scratch in the corner: "D.L.M." The slight smudge of ink was strangely endearing.