Tram moving through wrong glass

The tram rolls slow. It smells of wet wool and hot oil. I press my shoulder against the glass; the city outside is brick and green paint, a place I know but cannot place its name. On the seat beside me, a sheet of paper, folded precisely into the shape of a sparrow. I trace the crease with my thumb. It is a map.

A section of the ceiling above the aisle drops open, not falling, but holding a patch of dense, low weather—a sky the color of bruised plums. The little rain that falls carries the metallic taste of pennies.

I stop, the wheels ticking a single, uneven rhythm. I remember the small, wooden box, the one with the brass clasp. It holds the only photograph of the blue envelope. It remains in the house, across the street, in the hall with the tile floor. The weight of that certainty presses down.