The leaflet is dry, papery, and faintly bitter as it vanishes in your mouth. For a heartbeat, the world seems offended by the absurdity of it, then the wind around the white house stirs like it has noticed you. The boarded front door remains shut, stubborn as a secret, while the small mailbox hangs open beside you. Something about the open field feels less empty than before, as if the land itself is waiting to see what you do next.