Every evening, Mira sat on the underpass steps and played the same eleven notes. She never named the tune. It just showed up in her fingers one cold winter and stayed. Coins dropped into her open case while she played. But tonight a padded envelope was already waiting on the step. The address was written in her own slanted handwriting, even though she had never mailed a thing in her life.

Mira flipped the envelope over. No stamp, no return address, just a tiny printed symbol in the corner: a circle with eleven dots around it. It was the same shape she sometimes doodled without thinking. A van with that exact symbol on its door sat parked at the top of the stairs.