It was a cloudy Tuesday morning, and Emily Smith was hurrying home. She had run out of flour while making double chocolate chip cookies—her specialty!—and had to make a quick trip to the supermarket.

Emily reached her driveway and walked up the cracked asphalt towards the front porch. The old brick bungalow was very forgettable. It was hidden behind a towering oak tree and squeezed between two massive Victorian-style houses, each with an elaborate garden on a street with many large houses and many elaborate gardens. The previous owner, a sweet elderly lady who was moving after having won the provincial lottery, had offered a generous price, and Emily was quick to leap on it. She adored its centralized location and didn’t mind its humble appearance—feelings that were heavily influenced by her strict budget.

Once in the kitchen, Emily threw on a tattered apron and resumed her cookie-making. The cookies were meant for her best friend’s wedding shower, who had met her fiancé under unusual circumstances during a scientific work trip to Antarctica. She finished mixing the dry ingredients and added them to the steel bowl containing the wet ones. No more than fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang as Emily was moulding dough balls. She wiped her hands, humming, and went to answer the door.

Emily peered outside, but the air was still. There was no sign that anyone had walked up to her door. How odd, she thought. Her rustic mailbox caught her eye—it was open, and in it rested an envelope. She reached out and grabbed it. Across it was her name scrawled in elegant cursive letters. Intrigued, Emily gently opened the envelope and unfolded the paper tucked neatly inside. It felt thick in her fingers and of finer quality than an average letter deserved. Adjusting her glasses, she read:

*Dear Ms. Smith,

You have my sincerest apologies. Due to unprecedented circumstances, I’ve had to ignore my duties—not willingly, of course—as you Narrator. Subsequently, your life thus far has been dull, and painfully so. This is entirely my fault. I wish I could fully explain, and perhaps in due time I will, but for now it remains confidential. (To my credit, I am breaking an intolerable amount of rules by sending you this very letter.)

The instant you finish reading this letter, the most extraordinary thing will happen. I promise. It’s the very least I can do, Ms. Smith, the absolute very least.

With much love, Your Narrator*

Emily stood quietly on her porch. It was a ridiculous letter. Narrator? How arrogant. It was nothing more than an idiotic prank, but it bit hard into her insecurities. Dull. Boring. Empty. When she compared her life to those around her, these were the words that often came to mind. In fact, others were happy enough to point it out. And no matter how hard she tried, life found a way to keep her living in utter mediocrity.

Emily shook her head and crumpled the silly letter. She wouldn’t let it ruin her day; there was too much on her plate left to do, like finishing the blankets she was knitting for her soon-to-be triplet nieces. Emily wondered which neighbourhood rascal had written it. It was probably the damn Millers’ son.

Scoffing, she went to turn inside but froze. She looked down at the balled paper in her hand and back up again in disbelief at the sight on her street. It was like clockwork.

*Author’s note: Sorry if this deviated too much from the prompt! *