❝
The last few days had passed in a blur of laundry cycles, softly muttered lullabies, and sleepless hours spent sitting at the kitchen table with old photographs spread before Adrian like relics from another life. Grief, he had learned, did not announce itself with a grand gesture—it crept in quietly, in moments like Ellie's request for her mum's bedtime song, or the sudden impulse to text Lauren when something funny happened at school. He had stared at her name in his contacts more than once, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
Between tending to Ellie—her scraped knees, her pancake mornings, her endless questions about why birds fly or how crayons are made—Adrian barely had time to string together coherent thoughts. But at night, when she finally fell asleep (often curled into the crook of his arm with her hair smelling faintly of strawberry shampoo), the ache of missing Lauren hollowed him out. Grief was no longer a wave but a tide: persistent, never gone, always pulling. And yet, amid all of it, he had begun to feel something else emerging, hesitant but steady—connection.
Amie's letters had become something of an anchor.
Now, in the quiet after Ellie's bedtime story ("the one with the moonbeams and the fox that doesn't talk"), Adrian sat at his desk with a cup of cooling tea and Amie's most recent email open before him. Her little dinosaur drawing was propped against the edge of his lamp, and though it was meant for Ellie, he'd found himself smiling at it more than once throughout the day. He reread her letter again, not rushing. She wrote like she lived—curiously, sincerely, and without pretension.
He opened a new message and began to type.
—
Dear Amie,
I read your letter in the stillness of an early morning, before Ellie woke and before the sun had properly broken through the clouds. There's something about reading your words in those hours—it's like sharing coffee with someone across time zones, in a silence that asks nothing of us but presence. Thank you for that.
First—congratulations on surviving finals. Truly. I've seen enough glassy-eyed students and red-inked essays to know that it's a small miracle when someone reaches the other side of that gauntlet still intact. I'm sure the universe owes you something for the effort (perhaps in the form of Marcello's and a slice of good bread).
And the internship in Ireland… I don't believe for a second that you won't hear back. But even if you don't, I love that you let yourself apply. Sometimes hope is the bravest thing we do for ourselves. And Ireland, for what it's worth, does feel like it might suit you. The weather broods just enough to make light sacred. The ruins whisper. The fields remember.
Ellie is doing well—curious as ever, stubborn as ever. The warmer weather has made her nearly feral with energy. Yesterday she tried to "plant" a piece of toast in the garden, convinced it might grow into a bread tree. I didn't have the heart to explain composting properly, so we're watching the toast now. Carefully. Daily. She's already planning to share the harvest with Amie, who lives "in the computer but maybe has real trees too."
And thank you—for that small, simple pride you shared. It's not stupid. It's everything. Sometimes staying is the bravest, most defiant act we can commit. I understand that more than I can say. The fact that you remained—that you stayed the course through those difficult years—tells me you have a quiet kind of strength. The sort that doesn't shout or shine, but holds fast when the wind rises.
I wanted to tell you—reading your words lately feels like being offered something real, something not dressed up or curated. Just honest. I didn't realise how much I'd missed that until I started looking forward to your letters. There's a kind of ease in them, and a resonance I can't quite explain. Maybe I don't need to.
As for Ellie… she's already started on a reply. It features a unicorn astronaut and a very glittery volcano. She's also instructed me to "ask Amie what her favourite dinosaur is, but not the boring ones." So, you've been warned.
And as I press send on this, I find myself smiling—again. It's a rare thing these days, but this connection we've stumbled into… it feels like something growing. Not rushed. Not forced. Just real.
With gratitude and warmth,
Adrian
—
He read it through once, then clicked "Send."
The rain had begun to fall again, gently against the windows. He glanced toward Ellie's bedroom, where the sound machine played soft ocean waves, and then back to the glowing screen.
This time, when the house settled into quiet, it didn't feel quite so empty.
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