She received a brown envelope this morning. She stared at the unfamiliar handwriting. God, she thought, who could it be from? It has her name, spelt correctly, but without her father's, so it can't be from a formal acquaintance, yet it does not address the company she worked with. Lucky thing that the package arrived safely, she thought. If it was from anyone she knew why was the handwriting so unfamiliar? She ripped the flap and there it was, Dorothea Brande's Becoming A Writer staring straight at her. A book she referred and revered whenever she could not write a line on a page. It was hard to describe the joy that washed over her.
A little note was folded on the title page like a book mark (with a heading that reads: going beyond expectations). Then she realised that she had seen the handwriting before. Getting that package, even when the book is actually hers, felt like getting a gift.
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