Seven Thursdays. Seven cards in your lobby mailbox at 6:10 a.m., cotton paper, letterpress, the ink bitten so deep you can read them with your thumb. No stamp. No name. The same address every time, small and perfect: To the window with the fern.

They know things. That you read on the 11 bus with your knees up. That you fixed your own bike chain on the curb last month and swore at it. That the lobby buzzer, dead for a year, started working the week the first card came.

Tonight's card is different. Bigger type. Fewer words.

The press is sold. I leave 36th Street on the 30th. If you want these to stop, do nothing. If you want to know who: the green door, nine o'clock. The light will be on.

Mina says on speaker, from her couch in Remington.

You're already across the street. The green door is Treacy Letterpress, the shop you've walked past four hundred times. Behind the glass a man in an ink-black apron stands very still beside a heavy old press, holding a composing stick like it's keeping him upright. Corwin. You've said good morning to him for a year. He has said it back twice.

He sees you. He sets the stick down.

Barely audible through the glass.