The Anonymous Gift

It arrived on a Tuesday, a day usually as unremarkable as the rest of my existence. The mail carrier, a woman whose face I’d only ever seen in fleeting glimpses as she hurried past, left a small, unassuming package on my doorstep. No return address, just my name and street scrawled in an elegant, unfamiliar hand. It was a stark contrast to the utilitarian print of the bills and junk mail that usually populated my mailbox. My heart gave a little, unbidden flutter, a sensation I’d grown accustomed to associating with the rare moments Crow crossed my periphery.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a book. Not just any book, but a first edition of a collection of obscure poetry I’d only ever seen referenced in hushed tones in the dusty corners of rare book forums. The binding was worn, the pages brittle with age, but the scent that rose from it – a delicate perfume of aged paper and something akin to dried lavender – was intoxicating. It was as if the book itself held a breath, a story of its own before mine had even begun. I traced the embossed title with a fingertip, a wave of disbelief washing over me. How could anyone know? I’d mentioned my fascination with this particular volume only once, in passing, to a stranger at a poetry reading I’d attended alone, a stranger I’d forgotten the moment I’d stepped back into the anonymity of the street.

Later that evening, under the pretense of needing to ‘clear my head,’ I found myself at the small, independent bookstore Crow frequented. It was a place that smelled perpetually of coffee and old paper, a sanctuary for those who felt more at home amongst shelves than people. I pretended to browse, my gaze scanning the spines, but my true intention was to catch a glimpse of him, to see if the same strange currents that hummed beneath my skin when he was near were also stirring within him.