#kjat

Aja does not see the postmoogle arrive, bound to bed as she is--but even from the lower floor, she can hear the soft flap of their wings when they go. Fewer and fewer letters have reached her in the last several turns. Packages even scarcer--even still, she throws her legs over the side of the bed, feet flat against the hardwood planks. Breathes, hesitates, and hesitates some more. When at last she's composed herself to take on the stairs, reaching the top, let alone the front door, is a near thing.

She touches the note into bruised, cut fingers, thumbs the neat, careful handwriting while she inspects the box's contents. It's thoughtful--she'll give them that, but mystery is always a mixed notion.

Is it Kjat's? Bold. Too bold to send this, even for her. No. It isn't cheeky enough. There isn't a flower, there isn't a threat implied in cigarettes. The paper--she gives it a sniff--isn't infused.

Forestay? Maybe. It seemed a gift unlike Gjola, and why would --

Right. Kiaran.

Aja laughs. A tiny laugh, barely a puff through her nose to mark the crooked smirk, worsened by a bloodied lip half a sun healed. A full, real laugh is hard to muster. And it isn't worth the zigzag of pain it would send through her, she knows. She chances a long, slow inhale, letting the chill fill her lungs. A dull ache sets in. More than the cold, more than the way deep breaths strain her bandaging. It livens the bruising about her ribs with a steady, thrumming pulse.