Wendy sings at four in the afternoon when the sky is dipped in orange and red and the wind isn't too cold to call for frost along her skin.

 

Fingers curl around rusty-coloured steel, steadying herself against the balcony while syllables leave between her lips, songs making their way through late-autumn air.

 

Wendy wouldn't have her stage be anywhere else.

 

When she leaves her porch to check if she's received any mail downstairs, maybe grab a cup or two of hot chocolate at the local diner afterwards, her steps go still, hand paused around the doorknob.

 

There’s a pink letter on her wooden floor.

 

Odd. To have someone slip something under her door is surprising; it isn't like she personally knew anyone in the building, especially considering she'd just moved in a week ago, exchanging polite “Hello’s” and flitting “Goodbye’s” to other tenants if they happen to bump into each other in the hall.

 

Should she even open it?

 

Wendy frowns, staring a little longer at the nameless envelope still lying there. It wouldn’t hurt, would it?

 

Curiosity getting the better of her, Wendy opens it with eager fingers, as if it were a present under a Christmas tree.

 

Warmth seeps beneath Wendy's cheeks at the words written in smooth of black against white, aware that her skin has turned a savory hue of pink.

 

(Your voice is beautiful. I wouldn't mind listening to you all day if I could. I hope this isn't too creepy. I would love to hear you again.

 

- I.)

 

Wendy would consider it a tad creepy.

 

Okay, maybe a little bit more than that. But they've clearly gone through the hassle of writing a letter and sealing it in a pretty envelope that Wendy is slightly inclined to feel proud at the content - along with a bubbling cluster of happiness boiling in her stomach.

 

So she does just that: singing once the clock strikes four on a new day, grinning when the song ends and she finds another envelope on her floor.

 

But this time, it's yellow.

 

(I think unnie beat me to it, but I just wanted to say you sound amazing! I'd love to sing with you one day! Here, have a happy face!

 

:D

 

- S.)

 

So it's another person.

 

Considering the letter contains “Unnie,” it's safe to say that the people who have sent her the envelopes are women (as if pink and yellow weren't already telling enough), and that they know each other.

 

But why are they going through the trouble of writing to her? Just to encourage her singing? Nothing more? And couldn't they have just knocked on the door and introduce themselves like normal people?

 

Wendy giggles at the smiley face.

 

The letter is so much more childish than the first one, which was more sophisticated and mature compared to this bright, but no less affectionate, scrawl of words.

 

She kind of wants to meet them.

 

Stashing the yellow envelope with the pink on her desk, Wendy welcomes happiness bubbling in her stomach at the thought of having an additional letter to read before bed.

 

-

 

The next envelope that greets her is green.

 

(You sound pretty, like me. I like pretty. I bet you're pretty, too. I don’t like sharing the spotlight, but maybe I’ll make an exception for you. Then we'll be pretty together. What do you think?

 

You better not think too much, though. It's obvious already.

 

- J.)

 

Despite the compliment, Wendy can't help but feel there's a speck of hostility in today's letter; more...intimidating than the previous two. There's a certain sense of command written between the words, more blunt than the pink’s elegant sharp and yellow's gleeful soft.

 

But Wendy appreciates it all the same. Even if it's more direct and to the point (and a little frightening), effort had been put into it; Wendy's grateful.

 

Tucking away green to be with yellow and pink, Wendy falls asleep rereading each letter, heart swallowed in warmth, carving a smile along her lips.

 

-

 

It's purple, today.

 

(You have to be famous. Are you famous? Because you sound like it. If not, I could help you out. I've got connections.

 

But seriously. You should be famous.

 

- Y.)

 

Wendy laughs, happiness spilling between her lips faster than she could help it.

 

The letter is cute. Admiration is evident, but so is their drive for success - Wendy flushes at how confident the writer sounds. She wishes she had a bit of it.

 

She places the purple with green, yellow, and pink, grinning at the rainbow of colours containing words that have made her heart swell and tears fill her eyes more often than she could count.

 

It's been difficult adjusting to a new life by herself; she's always been used to Canada's outgoing friendliness compared to Korea's conservative silence. She isn't sure if she's being too chatty when she talks at work, or if she's being too loud at school, or if she's being annoying when she asks for directions on the streets.

 

She's been used to dreading tomorrow that when the first letter came under her door, Wendy had been anxious of it, too.

 

Now, she can't bear to imagine what life would be like without them.

 

Wendy runs her fingers across each colour, pretends there isn't another set of tears waiting to spill beneath her eyes.

 

It's amazing how their personalities shine with the small bits of writings they've pieced together for her.

 

Wendy wonders if she'll ever get to meet them - to thank them and let them know she appreciates their quirky, albeit at first, creepy, words of encouragement.

 

She didn't think there'd be so much happiness in the form of letters.

 

She hopes it'll never end.

 

-

 

The letters happen enough times that they become an essential part of her life, so intertwined with happiness.

 

(Your voice is extra pleasant today. It makes me feel warm. I hope you're staying warm, too. It's almost winter.

 

- I.)

 

(Did you catch a cold? Oh no! Don't forget to rest, okay? Here, another happy face!

 

:DD

 

P.S: Two mouths this time for a bigger smile!

 

- S.)

 

(Have you tried painting with just your voice? Because it’s beautiful. And I thought I was beautiful. I am, of course, but I guess there’s room for one more.

 

- J.)

 

(When I make you famous, if you’re not already famous, I’ll write songs for you. I’ve already composed a few, actually. You’re inspiring. But don’t mention that to anyone. It’s embarrassing.

 

- Y.)

 

Wendy reads them more than twice when she can; along the bus ride to school and home, before bed, especially when there's nothing but silence keeping her company, to moments when she's feeling at her lowest - have words to help her climb up and out of it.

 

For a few weeks, Wendy was fine with things being just like this; exchanging words together with songs and a letter.

 

But now she wants a little bit more than that. Maybe a voice or a face to go along behind each piece of paper.

 

And then it stops.

 

The first time Wendy finds no letter under her door, she thinks that maybe they fell asleep - that the song had been slow enough to sound like a lullaby, call the curtains over their eyes. That somehow, all four people have been busy with sleep.

 

Wendy pins the blame on the snow the second time; that maybe they got caught under the weather, was running late elsewhere, or had meetings to attend - that somehow, all four just couldn't make it.

 

The third time, Wendy wonders if they had just gotten bored with her voice.

 

She tries not to think about it. Instead, spend whatever time she can to re-read all the letters that did come through.

 

It takes two more weeks before Wendy's finally convinced that there won't be another letter under her door.

 

-

 

Even though she keeps her ritual of singing at four in the afternoon, it gets harder for Wendy to not let disappointment claw at her heart whenever there’s no envelope to greet her.

 

Wendy feels tears crawl beneath her eyes.

 

She thought it’d get easier.

 

Stupid.

 

She shouldn't have depended on strangers for happiness. It’s detrimental to be reliant on someone else for anything - those with common sense would’ve known that.

 

But it would've been nice, once in a while; to find comfort and steady safety in knowing that there are others who could make her laugh in a home so far away – and that maybe, just maybe, they're here to stay.

 

How naïve.

 

Wendy traces the worn lines of her apartment door, gaze blearily blinking at the small gap on the floor, hoping that if she waits long enough, a letter will slide through.

 

What happened? Did they really grow tired of her voice?

 

Her hand pauses its painting across wood, breath hitching at the sound of footsteps and hushed whispers just behind her door.

 

“Could you be any more late, Joy unnie?”

 

“Hey, beauty takes patience.”

 

“Will you two keep quiet? She'll hear us.”

 

“I hope she'll sing with me.”

 

Wendy's sight grows to a blur, wet lines already trailing down her cheeks that she isn't sure if she should wipe them off or open the door, first.

 

She knows it’s them – hopes it’s them. It sounds like them, or at least, what she imagines their voices to be like.

 

Her ears ring with a desperation to see the writers behind every pleasant letter – open the door, come on, her heart jogging to a sprint, as if it'd make the blood in her limbs pump faster and get the gears in her bones to move.

 

“Aren't you going to knock, Irene unnie?”

 

Wendy recalls the letters and the signatures written on each of them.

 

“Yes, but you're in the way, Seulgi. You're way too excited for this.”

 

Pink.

 

“Of course! Exams are finally over! Now I can't wait to sing with her. Do you think our voices would blend well?”

 

Yellow.

 

So their absence was due to tests?

 

“Maybe. But probably not as well as my pretty face.”

 

Wendy bites her lip, giggles trembling along her tongue.

 

Green.

 

“Please. She's fame material. You're just...material.”

 

It gets harder to hold in her laughter.

 

Purple.

 

Wendy smiles when there's a soft knock on her door, her palm melting against the wood, as if to feel the pressure and remind herself that yes, it's real.

 

They're actually here.

 

Suddenly she doesn't mind having no letter; not when she could hear their nervous shuffling on the other side, their hushed whispers piercing through, syllables a mess of, “Maybe you should knock louder, Irene unnie,” and “We’ve been gone for so long. Do you think she’s mad? Will she still sing with me?”

 

Wendy wipes off the tears with the corner of her sleeve, hopes that her face isn't as flushed as it feels and that her eyes aren't too puffy and red. In a way, she’s mad. Anger is waiting to flare up beneath her skin. But she’s happier than that; and a little worried.

 

She better not cry again. It'd be embarrassing.

 

Taking a breath, she twists the knob open, hoping her voice doesn't betray how nervous her heart is to finally meet happiness in person.

 

But as soon as she sees the faces belonging to each letter, how they hold their respective colours with another envelope tucked between their fingers (as well as their names inked across), their smiles reflecting pearly whites, tears spill to trace over Wendy’s cheeks again.

 

Wendy chokes out giggles when she catches them stumble forward, frantic, their hands already reaching up to wipe off the lines from her skin.

 

They’re actually fussing over her.

 

“Wait, why are you crying? Are you okay?” Pink - Irene, says, her thumb massaging the space beneath Wendy's left eye.

 

“Geez, I knew we should've come here sooner. Look at what you did, Joy. Because of you, we came late.”

 

Purple - Yeri, is accusing, all the while plucking out a piece of tissue from her bag, patting it along Wendy's cheek.

 

“Oh shut up, Yeri.” Green - Joy, despite her blunt tongue, is rubbing away at Wendy's jaw, her touch overwhelmingly gentle. “Sorry. Guess I wanted to look extra pretty today because I knew I'd finally get to meet you.”

 

“Please don’t cry,” Yellow - Seulgi, says, tucking stray auburn behind Wendy's ear, her gaze filled with panic. “Did we scare you?”

 

It should be worrying that strangers are touching her so intimately, as if they knew her, clustered into her personal space (they haven’t even introduced each other properly, yet) - but Wendy doesn't care.

 

To think that they could make her feel this way - comforted and secured and no longer lonely despite not knowing them at all; it's too good to be true. Fairytale, even.

 

Wendy attempts to ease their worry, giggling behind tears that seemingly won't end, her heart bleeding to speak. She cradles their hands, clusters them together even when they can’t really fit, their warmth seeping into her skin.

 

She wants to ask them to stay.

 

“…Will you all be gone again?”

 

It’s all Wendy manages to say before she’s enveloped in a hug that has too many arms and not enough air to breathe.

 

Their apologies come out in a rush of clashing syllables, voices overlapping one another that all Wendy can hear is utter gibberish. There isn’t any point to discern what they’re saying when she could feel them rub her back, pat her head (Wendy pretends it isn’t because she’s the shortest one), comfort her like she’s already part of the family.

 

Wendy shuts her eyes, smiling as they begin to bicker over whose fault it is in the first place, bantering over false accusations and apparent facts. She has no clue, really. And it doesn’t really matter.

 

All Wendy cares about is that they're here. And that's all the truth Wendy needs.