The blue jar on the desk already held two crumpled letters. Outside, the linden tree tapped the window glass, slow and steady. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ira crumpled another letter into a tight ball and dropped it in. Three now. White paper spilled past the rim, piling on the desk like a small snowdrift.
Ira wrote: 'Dear Maja, the city you talk about must be enormous.' Below, she drew a wobbly building with too many windows and a bird flying the wrong way.
She shoved the drawing under the jar, then kept writing: 'How tall is the linden tree there? Is it wider than ours?' The pencil scratched and stopped. Started again.
The sun slid across the desk, past the jar, past every unsent letter in the tall stack. The linden shadow stretched long and gold across the floorboards.
Ira lay on her back in the garden grass, chin propped on both fists, staring at the road where no car ever stopped. The linden canopy swirled slowly overhead.
'Hello, Maja,' she said to a passing beetle on the bare dirt path. The beetle turned its little legs and walked away, leaving no answer. The road stayed empty.
A thin parcel slid under the door. No knock. No ring. Ira ripped the brown paper open with all four fingernails, tearing it from one edge to the other.
Inside: a crayon drawing. Two girls stood under a wide, wide linden tree. Their names were scribbled underneath in wobbly red crayon. One was hers.
Ira pinned the drawing above her bed, between the window and the clock. She circled the linden tree three times, then wrote: 'Dear Maja, I found the city. It's this wide.' The blue jar sat quiet.