The maps started appearing in my letterbox every Tuesday. No postage. No return address. Just a folded sheet of paper, hand-drawn in ink so fine it might have been made with a single hair. Each one depicted a place that did not exist — coastlines bent the wrong way, rivers that flowed uphill in the legend, cities named things like Veth and Carrow-on-the-Seam. I began to notice details that repeated across different maps. The same lighthouse appearing in different geographies. The same small boat, always anchored offshore, always empty. On the eighth map, I found a street I recognised. My street. My house, faithfully rendered, with one difference: a door on the side of the building that has never existed. That night I went outside with a torch and put my hand against the brickwork where the door should be. The mortar was warm. And something on the other side knocked back.
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