The Box That Shouldn’t Exist

The Fairy Didn't Answer

The fairy didn't answer. She just smiled, soft and knowing. Her robe shimmered like dew-soaked leaves, hair glinting gold like sunrise trapped in rain.
Mae blinked. "Have we met before?"
The fairy tilted her head, then slowly nodded.
"When?"
The fairy mimed a cradle with her arms.
"When I was a baby?" Mae whispered.
Another nod.
She laughed under her breath. "That's like something out of a fairy tale. I've never seen you before."

Still, the fairy said nothing. Just looked at her, eyes unblinking. Like she already knew the ending of something Mae hadn't even begun.
Mae's voice softened. "Come inside. You're soaked."
She held out her hand. The fairy reached for it, then stopped. Their fingers brushed.
"Ow!" Mae gasped and yanked her hand back.
It burned. Not fire, but like static crackling down her wrist.
The fairy flinched too. Her wings trembled.

Mae looked down at her palm, then up again. "I guess we're not meant to touch."
The fairy gave a tiny shrug.
Mae smiled. "It's fine. I'll make tea. You're telling me everything."

She left the window, and when she returned, the fairy was hovering above the table, eyes wide as Mae set down a small biscuit.
"Want me to cut it in half?"
The fairy zipped down and clutched it to her chest like it was treasure.
Mae raised her hands. "Okay, okay. Don't mess with a hungry fairy."

She poured tea carefully, steam curling into the air like memory.
"What's your name? Mine is..."

The doorbell rang.
She turned instinctively.
One beat. Two.
She looked back.
The fairy was gone.
Not hiding. Not invisible.
Gone.
Mae stood frozen for a moment. Then, slowly, she went to the front door and opened it a crack.

A postman stood there, absolutely drenched. His red cap sagged to one side, and his mustache looked like it might slide right off his face.
"Morning, lass," he said. "Got a parcel here. Could be biscuits. Could be cursed. Who's to say?"
Mae blinked. "I'm... not supposed to open the door to strangers."
He gave a solemn nod. "Aye. And I'm not supposed to argue with squirrels, but they've got opinions, and here we are."

He held out the box. It was small, wrapped in thick brown paper with fraying twine. The edges looked like they'd been singed, and faint black stains marked the corners.
"Sign here," he added, offering a dripping clipboard. "Pen's moody. Don't take it personal."

Mae took the pen. It worked; barely. She signed her name, then reached for the box with trembling fingers.
As she touched the surface, something strange happened.
Tiny inked letters rose across the paper like fog from warm glass.

To Mae,
From Mum.
May 30th, 2025.

She froze.
The words swam in her vision.
"That's..." Her voice cracked. "That's from my mother."

The postman raised his eyebrows. "Well now. That's something, ain't it?"
"No," Mae shook her head slowly. "You don't understand. My mother is dead."

The postman shifted his weight. The rain poured harder behind him.
He looked at her, really looked.
Then said, softly, "Some things don't stay gone forever, love."

He tipped his cap, turned, and walked off into the storm.

Mae stood there, box in her hands, the name still glowing faintly across the paper.
And in her chest, beneath the skin, beneath the bones, something old had started to wake.