the smuggler’s bible

Murali

The cold weather dies panting in the dirt after a straight week of sun. With its demise, the old cycle begins again.

Murali pulls the envelope out of his mailbox, immediately suspicious. Cardstock, he thinks, thumbing the seal, but my birthday isn’t for—oh, no.

You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of

He drops it fast, but too late. He’s already seen the names. Color and gentle motion catch his eye. Another invitation, the corner tucked into the door frame. They’re everywhere, he realizes, carpeting his porch, clinging and chirping, eating his summer weekends alive while he watches.