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Ash Carpileny was never a girly girl. Her favorite color had always been blue, never pink. Her handwriting was messy and block styled, instead of bubbly. And she never took the easy way out. I guess that's why I'm not surprised when I see the blue envelope resting on my bed, the messy scrawl familiar, one week after Ash died. For a moment I can only stare at my name scratched across the blue surface. I'd seen my name in that handwriting so many times throughout my 16 years. Never did I think I would ever see it again. My fingers brush across the envelope, soft as a feather. I bring it up to my nose and I think I can almost catch the scent