When Dionisia was not serving as a field medic during times of disaster or assisting a child who had fallen and broken their leg, she often busied herself with the sort of work a nurse usually did: paying visits to the long-term residents, wheeling the injured between their rooms and the tea room, and—today—sorting through patients' mail.

She'd collected a small stack of letters from the mail room, most of which sealed in plain envelopes and appropriately labeled. Mostly, she said, because there was one in particular that stuck out like a sore thumb: the words "Miss Begonia Belby" were written across the blush pink envelope in delicate calligraphy, marked by a single heart-shaped stamp in the corner. Dionisia's eyes caught on it for a moment before she brought it to the front of the stack, deciding in the moment to visit the woman's room before the others'.

(Perhaps it was the lettering—which read as distinctly feminine in Dionisia's opinion—that brought the sudden curiosity upon her, or perhaps it was merely that "Belby" was at the beginning of the alphabet. She couldn't say.)

She made her way to Miss Belby's room and entered after a double knock, a pleasant smile spread across her lips. "Miss Belby," she greeted, noting the woman's fiery red hair (which, in her opinion, suited her well). "Forgive me for disturbing you. My name is Miss Dionisia Tweedy, and I've brought you your mail." Dionisia surveyed the woman. She was clearly in no condition to be maneuvering on her own, so Dionisia stood, letter in hand, without making any attempt to hand it over.

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