The rainy season in London is always long, and the gray mist covers the entire Baker Street like a wet net.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Lynn pushed open the heavy wooden door of the apartment, an unsigned letter was lying quietly on the doormat. The envelope is made of old-fashioned kraft paper, with edges that have been soaked by rainwater and become slightly soft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She frowned. In this era accustomed to communicating through email and text messages, handwritten letters are like an anomaly. What’s even stranger is that there is no postmark or sender address on the envelope, only the slightly sloppy “Lin En Shou” written in black pen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a hint of vigilance and curiosity, Lynn walked into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot black tea. She opened the envelope and found only a thin piece of parchment paper with a short line of words written on it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Don’t drink that cup of tea<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lynn’s heart skipped a beat. She lowered her head and looked at the freshly filled teacup in her hand, the amber liquid still emitting a wisp of heat. The room was terrifyingly quiet, with only the clock ticking. Who is secretly observing her? Is it the homeless man who has been wandering downstairs lately, or the neighbor next door who always wears sunglasses and has a mysterious whereabouts?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An inexplicable sense of oppression surged from all directions. She stared at the cup of tea and then at the letter. The handwriting is very familiar, like some deliberately imitated pen style.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Taking a deep breath, Lynn didn’t drink that cup of tea, but turned around and walked into the bedroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three minutes later, she returned to the living room. The teacup in her hand was already empty, and the letter was thrown into the fireplace by her. The flames licked the cowhide paper and instantly turned into ashes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just then, the doorbell rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lynn walked up to the door and looked out through the peephole. Standing outside the door is Martha, the landlady who lives downstairs. The old lady held a freshly baked apple pie in her hand and was smiling as she shouted through the door, “Lynn! I know you just finished work, eat while it’s hot<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lynn opened the door, took the apple pie, and casually asked, “Mrs. Martha, did someone just stuff something at my doorstep<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oh, there is! “Mrs. Martha laughed heartily.” It’s my grandson who just started elementary school, little Tommy. He insisted on playing some ‘spy game’ with me today and said he left me ‘top secret information’. I guess he went knocking on your door again<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lynn was stunned for a moment, and the handwriting on the parchment came to mind – it was exactly the same as the homework that little Tommy had written in school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
How did he know I was making tea? “Lynn couldn’t help but laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because every time you come home from work, the first thing you do is boil water and make tea! “Mrs. Martha blinked.” He’s afraid you’ll burn your mouth, so he asked me to tell you. But this kid is mischievous and didn’t dare to knock on the door before running away<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The rain outside the window stopped at some point, and a ray of sunset pierced through the clouds and sprinkled onto the corridor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lynn looked at the cinnamon scented apple pie on the table and suddenly felt that this unsigned “top secret intelligence” was probably the gentlest secret on this rainy day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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