❝
Adrian sat quietly for a long while after reading Amelia's letter—Amie's letter, he reminded himself with a smile that lingered longer than most these days. The rain had softened outside, a steady hush against the windows, and the house had settled into that nighttime stillness where even the floorboards stopped creaking. He read her words again, slower this time. There was something about the way she moved through the world—present, observant, attuned to the little details—that stirred something gentle in him. And then there was her offer to write to Ellie.
That part stopped him. He hadn't expected it. The image of Ellie at the kitchen table, her tiny brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled with her crayons, came to mind unbidden. She'd drawn him a purple dinosaur last week that looked more like a squashed eggplant with teeth. He'd taped it to the fridge anyway.
Adrian leaned forward, fingers settling on the keyboard like he was about to write something sacred. Because in a way, this was. He began to type.
Dear Amie,
Your last letter stayed with me in a way I didn't quite expect. It read like a deep breath after a long stretch of holding one in—thank you for that. There's something about the way you describe your days that makes them feel not only vivid, but somehow familiar, even across the distance between us. It's like being offered a warm seat at your table.
Now, first and foremost—your offer to write to Ellie. I don't think I can properly express how touched I was by that. Truly. The thought of someone taking the time to send her something thoughtful, whimsical, and entirely hers… it nearly undid me in the best way. She's at that magical age where everything still shimmers with possibility, where a dinosaur drawn in crayon can be an entire world unto itself. I can already imagine her face lighting up when I tell her a "friend of mine" wants to write to her. She'll probably insist on sending something back—brace yourself for an abstract scribble or three and possibly a glitter sticker explosion. She has a particular fondness for making her art "sparkly and fierce." Her words, not mine.
I think there's something quietly revolutionary about kindness that asks for nothing in return, and yours came through with such sincerity, it caught me off guard in the best way. Thank you for thinking of her. It means more than you know. I'll help her reply, of course—she's still learning how to spell "diplodocus," though she says it with absolute confidence, which might be even more important.
Now, about your questions…
If I could step back into a moment just to feel it again—not to change a single thing—it would be the night Ellie was born. I remember everything about it with a clarity that almost aches. The feel of her impossibly small hand curling around my pinky, the weight of her against my chest, the look on Lauren's face as she whispered, "She's ours." I'd relive it not for the miracle of birth itself, but for that overwhelming sense that I was no longer drifting. That I belonged—to someone, to something. It's hard to explain unless you've felt it, but I suspect from your writing that you'd understand.
As for your other questions, I've always had a secret love for storytelling—not just academic lectures or formal writing, but the kind that unfolds by a fire or at the pub, where voice and gesture and timing turn a simple account into something memorable. I'm trying to write more fiction lately, though I'm rusty. I suppose this exchange with you has stirred something that's been lying dormant. Funny how the right conversation can do that.
Your curiosity about dreams as messages and your own draw to symbols reminds me of something I often ask my students: What story are we telling when we're not speaking aloud? I think that's what I hear in your photos too—the way you describe them. Little testaments to fleeting truths. I'd love to see them someday, if you're ever inclined to share. Especially the stairwells. I have a thing for forgotten corners.
You asked if any of your favorite music triggers personal memory for me—strangely, yes. There's this live recording of "Vienna" by Ultravox. I once played it on repeat while driving through the Wicklow mountains, lost in thought and grief and mist. Something about that echoing synth and haunting vocal made me feel like I wasn't entirely alone. Music can be like that—a lifeline to some forgotten part of ourselves, or maybe a guide back to it.
I hope the thesis isn't devouring you too cruelly this week. And I hope Marcello's always has your table waiting.
Would you tell me something you're proud of—not academically, but quietly, maybe something no one really knows?
And if I can ask one more—what's the story behind your film camera? There's something beautifully anachronistic about shooting on film in a digital age. I'm curious what keeps you reaching for it.
Until next time—thank you again, for your words, for your care, and for the kindness you've extended to both of us.
With a full heart,
Adrian
He read over the letter one last time before hitting "Send." Then he sat back, let the quiet of the evening rise around him, and pictured Ellie's reaction when he told her she might be getting a dinosaur in the post—from a new friend named Amie, who liked old music, film cameras, and dreaming wide open.
For the first time in a long while, the house didn't feel so quiet.
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