You stop breathing for a moment when you see what is inside the envelope.
Not because it is money, though there is money too, folded carefully and wrapped in a second sheet of wax paper as if whoever packed it feared dust, rain, and bad luck in equal measure. And not because of the documents, though the stamped papers beneath the cash are thick enough to feel important before you read a single word. You stop breathing because on top of everything rests a single photograph, slightly faded at the corners, and in it you see yourself.
