As Sophie opened her garden gate, she looked in the mailbox. There was usually a lot of junk mail and a few big envelopes for her mother, a pile to dump on the kitchen table before she went up to her room to start her homework. 

From time to time there would be a few letters from the bank for her father, but then he was not a normal father. Sophie’s father was the captain of a big oil tanker, and was away for most of the year. During the few weeks at a time when he was at home, he would shuffle around the house making it nice and cozy for Sophie and her mother. But when he was at sea he could seem very distant. 

There was only one letter in the mailbox—and it was for Sophie. The white envelope read: 
“Sophie Amundsen, 3 Clover Close.” That was all; it did not say who it was from. There was no stamp on it either.