Mira slides the weight aside and sets the card down, then pulls a fresh sheet and a pen with a nib she trusts. A short note, then. Careful with the wording — Rowan reads plainly, but anyone might read it over his shoulder.

She writes in a steady hand, speaking the lines aloud as they go down.

"Rowan Fen. The parcel you left here, marked A17, has an address card naming both North Street and Marsh Lane for the same recipient. No crossing-out, no second hand. When you have a moment, write back or call at the archive and tell me what street signs you noticed on your route out and on your return — nothing more is needed. The parcel remains sealed and in my custody. — M. Vell, Black Archive."

She blots the page and turns it toward the traveler on the counter, keeping one finger at the corner so it can't slide.

"That's the whole of it. It asks only what he saw, and it doesn't mention the archive's holdings or where the parcel might go next — useful, if the note sits in a courier's satchel among strangers." A small tilt of her head. "If you'd rather it say less, or ask something else, now's the time. Once you approve it, I'll fold and seal it, and it waits for Rowan or a runner. Nothing goes out until you say so."

The rain keeps its rhythm on the glass. A17 sits where it has sat all along, seal unbroken.