My mailbox overflowed with fliers, coupon catalogs, and credit card offers. I groaned, and began prospecting for correspondence of actual importance. Even in my shorts and faded concert t-shirt, the summer sun was brutal. Heat radiated off the blacktop, and I wondered if my dollar store flip flops would actually melt into the pavement if I lingered too long.
Sifting through the mail pile, I encountered a thick tanned envelope. I tucked it beneath my arm and dropped the rest into my nearby recycling bin.
There was no sender, or address. A glopped wax seal held the flap down. It bore a crest that felt simultaneously familiar and alien: a hunched vulture with wings partially folded. The bird gripped an hourglass in the talons of one foot, and a skull in the other. Four Latin words encircled the creature in a ring: Receptio Tempus ~ Memento Mori
Curious, and careful not to disturb the seal, I sliced open the envelope with my house key. A single sheet of thick papyrus fell out. I read the hand-written message under my breath:
