❝ Amelia Parker sat in the university library, the scent of aged paper and freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air. Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, a few strands falling into her face as she absently brushed them away. The dim glow of the overhead lamps illuminated her fair complexion, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the sharp intelligence in her piercing blue eyes.
As she scrolled through her email, sipping the now-lukewarm latte beside her, an unexpected advert in the campus newsletter caught her attention—"International Pen Pals Wanted! Rediscover the Joy of Letter Writing!" A slow smile curled her lips.
It had been years since she'd last thought about pen pals, but the memory surfaced with remarkable clarity. She had been ten years old, a quiet but inquisitive girl who found solace in books rather than the playground. Her teacher had assigned them each a pen pal from a different country, and Amelia had been paired with a girl from Greece named Eleni. They had exchanged letters for nearly two years, sending postcards, stickers, and excited ramblings about school, pets, and the little adventures of childhood. She remembered the thrill of seeing a new envelope in the mail, carefully tearing it open to reveal Eleni's neat handwriting, sometimes adorned with doodles of the Parthenon or olive branches.
As the years passed, life got in the way, and their correspondence faded. But the excitement of waiting for a letter, of knowing someone far away was thinking of her, had never quite left her.
Now, at twenty-three, Amelia was knee-deep in her graduate studies in Ancient History, her days spent buried in research about forgotten civilizations and ancient texts. She had a deep fascination with the stories of the past, how people long gone had lived, loved, and communicated in ways now considered obsolete. Perhaps that was why this advert intrigued her so much—it was a chance to revive something timeless, something real, in a world that had become so digitized.
Without hesitation, she clicked on the email address listed in the newsletter and composed a new email containing all of the information the ad had listed. She would be assigned a name and address soon. The thought sent a spark of excitement through her chest. It had been so long since she had written a letter by hand, folded the paper with care, and sealed an envelope with anticipation.
Amelia leaned back in her chair, tapping the pen against her chin. Who would she be writing to? Where in the world would they be?
Adrian Meyers sat at the small kitchen table, the glow of his laptop casting long shadows against the unwashed dishes in the sink. The house was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of the baby monitor as Ellie shifted in her sleep. He rubbed a hand over his tired face, forcing his eyes to focus on the lecture notes he had been reviewing for his students. Teaching had always been a passion of his. History fascinated him—how the past shaped the present, how lives intertwined across centuries. He had built a career out of it, becoming a professor at the local college, where he spent his days lecturing on revolutions, wars, and cultural shifts. But lately, his love for the subject felt distant, buried beneath grief and exhaustion.
It had been just over a month since he buried Lauren. The word "widower" still felt foreign, like a title that belonged to someone else. Six months ago, they had been planning a trip to the coast, imagining a future where Ellie would build sandcastles and chase seagulls while they sat on a blanket, laughing at the mess she made. But cancer had stolen that future before they even realized it was at risk. The diagnosis had come too late, the battle too short. One moment, they were clinging to hope, and the next, he was holding her hand as she slipped away. Now, the house felt hollow. Too quiet. Too big. Every room still held traces of her—her favorite book left on the coffee table, the scent of her perfume lingering in the wardrobe, the photos she had insisted on framing and hanging in the hallway. But she was gone, and all that remained was the weight of what she had left behind.
There was no time to grieve properly. Not when Ellie needed him. At three years old, she didn't understand why her mother wasn't coming back. She only knew that sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would wake up crying for her, and it was Adrian who would hold her until she drifted back to sleep. He had to be both parents now. The one who cooked her meals, folded her tiny clothes, kissed her scraped knees, and made sure she felt loved, even when he felt completely lost.
Exhaustion was a constant companion. Between lectures, grading, and committee meetings, he barely kept up with his work, let alone the responsibilities of running a household. His students noticed. He saw it in their concerned glances when he lost track of a point mid-lecture, in the way some of them hesitated before handing in their essays, as if giving him extra work felt like a burden. He appreciated their quiet kindness, but it only made him feel more like a man who had lost his footing. Tonight was no different. His eyes burned as he skimmed through his notes, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, between lesson plans and unanswered emails, an ad caught his eye.
"International Pen Pals Wanted! Rediscover the Joy of Letter Writing!"
Normally, he would have scrolled past without a second thought. These kinds of things felt frivolous, a waste of time he didn't have. But something about it pulled him back. When he was twelve, his English teacher had signed their class up for a pen pal program, matching them with students from around the world. Adrian had been paired with a boy from Argentina named Lucas. At first, their letters had been stiff and formal, filled with polite questions about school and family. But as time went on, they found common ground—sports. Lucas had been obsessed with football, and Adrian, who spent every free moment playing with his friends on the pitch behind his house, finally had someone to talk to who cared as much as he did. They wrote back and forth about their favorite teams, arguing over which players were the best, trading stories of their own victories and defeats. Lucas had even sent him a Boca Juniors scarf one Christmas, and Adrian had worn it proudly, despite not supporting the team. For years, those letters had been something to look forward to, a small thrill in the form of an envelope with foreign stamps. But, as it often happened, life got in the way. The letters became less frequent. Then they stopped altogether.
Now, staring at the ad, he wondered what had become of Lucas. Did he still love football? Did he have a family of his own? Had he ever thought about those letters, the same way Adrian did? Maybe this was a pointless distraction. But maybe, just maybe, it was something else—something to remind him that there was still more to life than grief and responsibility. Before he could talk himself out of it, he clicked the link. The form was simple. Name, age, country, interests.
Name: Adrian Meyers
Age: 36
Country: Ireland
Interests: History (naturally), football (watching & playing when time allows), reading, and spending time outdoors.
There was a section for a short introduction, and for a moment, he hesitated. How much was he supposed to share? Would it seem strange to mention Ellie? Or Lauren? He didn't want pity. He wanted distraction. Connection. He kept it brief.
"Hi, I'm Adrian. I live in Ireland and teach history at the local college. Life's been a bit hectic lately, but I'd love to reconnect with letter writing—something I enjoyed when I was younger. I'm a big football fan and always up for a debate about the best players or teams. Looking forward to hearing from whoever is out there."
He hovered over the submit button. Who would be on the other side of this? A retired teacher in Canada? A university student in Japan? A factory worker in Germany? Would they have anything in common? Two decades had passed since his last pen pal. This was something different now. He was different.
❝Later that evening, Amelia's phone chimed with a new email notification. Glancing at the screen, her heart gave a small, unexpected flutter as she read the subject line: "Your Pen Pal Match: Adrian Meyers".
With her curiosity piqued, she tucked her legs beneath her on the couch and pulled her laptop onto her lap. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of her desk lamp, casting shadows against the wall of bookshelves brimming with texts on everything from Mesopotamian mythology to the rise and fall of Rome.
A professor from Ireland. That was interesting...
She skimmed the brief introduction attached to the email—history professor, football fan, looking to reconnect with letter writing. He was older than she expected, though that wasn't a bad thing. She'd half expected to be matched with another student like herself. Instead, she had been paired with someone who lived and breathed history just as she did, albeit from a different perspective.
Without hesitating, Amelia opened a new document and began to type.
Dear Adrian,
I suppose this is the part where we introduce ourselves, though you likely already know a bit about me from my information sheet. Still, there's something different about actually writing it out, isn't there?
My name is Amelia, and I'm twenty-three years old, currently working toward my Master's in Ancient History at a university here in the U.S. I imagine our areas of historical interest are probably quite different—my focus is primarily on early civilizations, particularly the Mesopotamians and Sumerians. There's something so fascinating about how much we still don't know, how even the tiniest discovery can shift the way we understand the people who lived before us.
Outside of my studies, life is a mix of research, part-time tutoring, and trying to squeeze in time for hobbies—though I'll admit, the demands of academia don't leave much room for anything else. I love to read (fiction and nonfiction alike), and I'm a hopeless tea enthusiast. Lately, I've been trying to step away from screens more, which is part of why I signed up for this pen pal program. There's something nostalgic about it, isn't there? The idea of correspondence, of words travelling across miles to reach someone else. Granted, I am sitting here, staring at a screen while I type this, but at least it isn't wasted away on Tik-Tok, or some other social media hellscape... right?
I'd love to hear more about you—your work, what made you decide to teach, and what sort of history you specialize in. I will end this now before I end up writing you part of my thesis...
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best,
Amelia
With a satisfied nod, Amelia reread the letter before attaching it to the secure email thread. It had been a long time since she'd written to someone like this, but as she hit send, she felt that familiar spark of excitement—the same one she had as a child, waiting for a letter to arrive in the mail.
Adrian stared at the email notification, his cursor hovering over the subject line.
"Your Pen Pal Match: Amelia Parker"
For a brief second, he debated whether he should open it now or later. He had almost forgotten about signing up for the program in the first place - life had a way of swallowing up moments of spontaneity, drowning them in responsibilities. But here it was. His match.
Taking a sip of his now-cold tea, he clicked on the message.
The name was unfamiliar, of course. Amelia Parker. Twenty-three. A Master's student in Ancient History from the U.S. Adrian leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he read. She was much younger than him, though that wasn't entirely surprising. He had assumed his match would be someone older - maybe a retired professor looking to reminisce about the days before emails and instant messaging took over.
But Amelia had an enthusiasm that bled through her words, a curiosity for the past that Adrian found himself appreciating. Mesopotamians, Sumerians - those were worlds apart from his own focus, but still, she spoke about history with the kind of reverence that only true scholars understood. He could almost picture her in some dimly lit library, buried under stacks of ancient texts, the smell of parchment and ink filling the air.
He tapped his fingers against the desk, considering how to respond.
He used to love writing letters. As a boy, he'd written to Lucas with an eagerness that seemed foreign to him now. It had been different back then - less weight, less loss, less responsibility. But Amelia's letter had stirred something. A reminder of what it was like to simply share thoughts with someone, not through obligation, but through connection.
He reached for a pen and a notebook, deciding to draft the letter by hand before typing it out.
Dear Amelia,
I have to admit, it's been years since I last wrote a letter like this, but I agree - there's something different about it. A conversation stretched across time and distance, thoughts put to paper (or, in this case, screen) before being sent into the unknown.
It's good to meet you, or at least, meet you in this way. A Master's student in Ancient History - that's no small feat. I imagine your days are filled with research and late nights deciphering texts that most people have never even heard of. Mesopotamia and Sumerians, you say? Fascinating. My own studies tend to veer toward modern history, particularly Irish history and European conflicts. I suppose we're centuries apart in our interests, but I think that makes this all the more interesting. The past is vast, after all, and there's always something new to learn.
As for me, I teach history at the local college here in Ireland. I've always been drawn to stories - real ones, ones that shaped the world. Teaching, in a way, allows me to bring them back to life, to remind students that history isn't just a series of dates and names but people, choices, consequences. I won't lie and say I always wanted to be a professor, though. As a kid, I was convinced I'd be a footballer. Football was my first love - playing it, watching it, debating it endlessly. Life had other plans, of course, but the sport is still something I hold close.
Your mention of nostalgia struck a chord with me. I signed up for this program for the same reason - I think I wanted a reminder of what it felt like to write without expectation. To have a conversation that isn't just a passing exchange but something that lingers.
I'd love to hear more about what drew you to ancient civilizations. Was it a particular book, a moment, or something else entirely? And since you mentioned your love of reading - any favourite books?
Looking forward to your reply.
Best,
Adrian
After typing out the final lines, Adrian read over the letter once more before attaching it to the secure thread.
A part of him hesitated before hitting send. It had been so long since he'd let himself do something purely for himself. But maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of connection he needed - one not rooted in grief, but in the simple act of sharing words.
What a wonderful surprise it was to open my inbox and find your letter waiting for me. There is something undeniably charming about receiving a message in this way—something slower, more deliberate, like tracing the inked lines of an ancient manuscript and feeling the weight of history in every word.
It's a pleasure to meet you, even if across a digital bridge rather than across a table scattered with books and half-drunk cups of coffee. I must admit, when I signed up for this program, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. But already, I can see the potential for something meaningful—a true exchange of thoughts, perspectives, and perhaps even pieces of ourselves, carried across time and distance.
Your field of study fascinates me. Modern history, particularly Irish history, holds an intensity that is so deeply human. The echoes of conflict, resilience, and identity-building—it must be both thrilling and heavy to teach. I imagine your students must benefit greatly from your passion, the way you bring stories to life.
As for me, my love for ancient civilizations was sparked early. It began, as many obsessions do, with a book. I was ten years old when I first read about the Epic of Gilgamesh, and something about those old words, preserved for thousands of years on brittle clay tablets, struck me profoundly. The idea that people so long ago struggled with the same questions we do now—mortality, friendship, purpose—felt like a revelation. From that moment, I was hooked. There is something humbling about realising that even across vast chasms of time, we are not so different from those who came before us.
I can certainly relate to childhood dreams taking unexpected turns. You wanted to be a footballer; I wanted to be an archaeologist, brushing dust from forgotten relics under the blazing sun. In some ways, I suppose I am still chasing that dream, though my tools now are books and theories rather than trowels and excavation grids.
Since you asked about books, I'll try to restrain myself—though it's a challenge! One of my all-time favorites is Madeline Miller's The Song of Achilles. There's something so lyrical and heart-wrenching about the way she breathes life into the ancient past. But if we're stepping beyond historical fiction, I'd say Jane Eyre holds a special place in my heart as well. What about you? Any books that have shaped you, stayed with you over the years?
I appreciate what you said about nostalgia. I, too, was drawn to this program for that very reason—the desire to connect beyond the fleeting nature of modern communication. To take the time to craft a response, to reflect, to engage in something a little more personal, a little more human. Already, I can tell this will be a conversation worth having.
Looking forward to your reply.
Warmly,
Amelia
Closing the lid on her laptop, Amelia sighed. Hoping that her words had been received well, but also, she wondered what he was doing in that moment. Had he been teaching his students? Would they be listening with the wonder she would have been? With a shake of her head, she stood, reached for her shoulder bag and placed her laptop inside. She had a couple of classes before her weekend.
She didn't have any plans, as of yet, but more than likely, she knew she would be spending it reading. Or, hopefully, writing...
Adrian had meant to check his inbox before bed, just a quick glance to make sure nothing urgent from the college had slipped in while he'd been settling Ellie down for the night. But when he saw the subject line - a small, unexpected warmth settled in his chest.
He read Amelia's words slowly, deliberately, as if they were penned on parchment instead of pixels glowing on his screen. There was something about the way she wrote - like she was truly reaching across the miles, not just exchanging pleasantries, but inviting him into something deeper.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. It had been a long day. Ellie had been particularly restless, missing her mother in the way only a three-year-old could. There had been tantrums and tears, and Adrian had barely held himself together through it all.
But now, in the quiet, he let himself focus on the letter.
She understood history in the same way he did. Not as a lifeless study of dates and facts, but as something human, something alive. He could picture her, younger than him but already so deeply entrenched in her field, losing herself in ancient texts the way he once had in tales of war and revolution.
He flexed his fingers and opened a new document, pausing only briefly before typing.
Dear Amelia,
I'll admit, I was looking forward to your reply more than I expected. You're right - this way of communicating is different. It forces a kind of patience we don't often find in modern conversations. And there's something satisfying in that.
Your description of how you first fell in love with ancient history struck a chord with me. The Epic of Gilgamesh at ten years old - that's something. It's no surprise you were hooked after that. There's a rawness to those ancient stories, isn't there? A reminder that no matter how much we evolve, we're still grappling with the same fears and desires as those who came before us.
Your mention of childhood dreams made me smile. You wanted to be an archaeologist, and I wanted to be a footballer. Funny how we both ended up pursuing the past in different ways. My love for history started later than yours, though. I was always drawn to stories, but it wasn't until university that I realized how much I loved uncovering the layers of history - especially Irish history. There's a weight to it, a sense of identity tied into every battle, every revolution, every piece of folklore. Teaching it, I hope, gives my students an understanding of where they come from - not just in terms of land and politics, but in the deeper, more human sense.
As for books - where do I begin? There are the ones that shaped my academic path, but if we're talking about books that stayed with me, I'd have to say All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. The way he captures history through the personal, the way war becomes more than just an event but something lived - it's the kind of storytelling that lingers. Another one is The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. There's something about books within books, stories about stories, that draws me in.
I have to say, I didn't expect to find this exchange so... grounding. Life these days is chaotic, to say the least. My daughter, Ellie, is three. Keeping up with her is a challenge on the best of days, but lately, she's been struggling. She lost her mother - we lost her - not long ago. I don't mention this for sympathy, only because it's impossible to write about my life without including that part of it. Grief is strange. Some days, it feels like I'm functioning well enough, and other days, it's like I've forgotten how to be a person beyond it.
But then there are things like this. Small moments of connection.
I'd love to hear more about your studies - what's your current research focus? Do you have a dream project you'd love to work on if time and resources weren't an issue?
Looking forward to your reply.
Best,
Adrian
Adrian leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. He hadn't meant to bring up Lauren. Hadn't meant to go there. But writing had always made him honest in a way spoken words never did.
He reread the letter once before sending it.
Then, as the email disappeared from his screen, he sat there in the silence, waiting for the emptiness to settle again.
❝Amelia's day had been spent shuffling between lectures, discussion groups, and solitary hours in the university library. Surrounded by the scents of old paper and ink had been something she had long since associated with home. Her professor had been particularly animated during their seminar on early Mesopotamian trade networks, his enthusiasm sparking a lively debate among the students. She had contributed, of course, but a quiet distraction tugged at the back of her mind.
Adrian's email...
Every break between classes, every moment of stillness, she found herself wondering what he would say, what pieces of himself would he reveal in response to her letter. It had been a long while since she had engaged in a correspondence like the one she was carrying on with him; something slower, something... intentional.
Exhaustion clung to her by the time she had made it home, but she ignored the stack of readings and half-finished research notes on her desk. They could wait. Settling into her chair, she opened her laptop, her heart thumping lightly against her ribs as she clicked on her inbox.
And there it was...
She read slowly, carefully, savouring each word. Adrian had a way of writing that felt unguarded... real. She could picture him there, on the other side of the world, letting his thoughts spill onto the screen as the night settled around him. But it was the mention of his daughter that made her pause.
Ellie. Three years old. And the loss of her mother...
The weight of that revelation settled heavily on Amelia's chest. She traced the lines again, feeling the quiet pain beneath them, the kind of loss that reshapes a person. And yet, even in his grief, there was something in his words, an openness, a willingness to share. That, more than anything, struck her deeply.
Drawing in a long, steadying breath, she began to type...
❝Dear Adrian,
I read your letter twice, once for the words and once for everything between them. Thank you for sharing as much as you had. I know loss can shape us in ways we never expected, and I can only imagine how much strength it takes to move through it while caring for a little one. Ellie—her name is lovely. She must be incredibly lucky to have you, even on the hardest days.
I won't pretend to have the right words when it comes to grief. It is its own kind of history, isn't it? A timeline measured in before and after. But I will say that I am honoured to be part of a conversation that offers even the smallest moment of connection in the midst of it.
As for your book choices, All the Light We Cannot See is one that stayed with me as well. The way Doerr weaves time and perspective, the tenderness in the midst of devastation, it's a rare kind of storytelling. And The Shadow of the Wind, I couldn't agree more. There's something so intoxicating about stories that fold in on themselves, books that seem to contain hidden echoes of own existence. You have excellent taste, though I suspect you already knew that.
To answer your question, my current research is focused on religious symbolism in early Sumerian mythology, particularly the role of dreams and divine communication. It's fascinating how much weight was placed on dreams as messages from the gods, entire decisions, wars, even the rise and fall of kings, were believed to hinge on them. If time and resources weren't an issue, I think I'd love to do fieldwork in Iraq, to walk the ruins of Ur, to stand where the first great cities once stood and see how much of the past still lingers in the earth.
What about you? If you could go anywhere, study anything, free of obligation, where would history take you?
Looking forward to your reply.
Warmly,
Amelia
Clicking the "Send", Amelia sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. The stacks of books and papers that surrounded her desktop blurred in the background.
So, he was a father...
And a widow...
A sad smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she pulled her legs to her chest. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she just sat there and read over the words they had sent to one another. After a little while, she finally put her feet down and got up from her desk. It was going to be a long night since she had been putting off her research.
Finding the coffee in her cupboard, she began the process of making a fresh pot before tackling the papers on her desk.
Adrian's eyes lingered on Amelia's email as he sat at his desk, the soft blue light of his laptop screen reflecting the quiet solemnity of the Irish night. The gentle tapping of keys and the hum of distant rain provided a measured cadence to his thoughts. He had spent most of his day immersed in lectures and grading, but now, with the house quiet and Ellie asleep, he allowed himself a moment of respite—a moment to connect.
He clicked open his email client and began to draft his response, the cursor blinking steadily as if inviting him to share his truth. His fingers moved thoughtfully over the keyboard, each keystroke carrying a mix of nostalgia, sorrow, and hope.
Dear Amelia,
Your letter arrived like a gentle beacon amid the usual clamor of my day, and I want to thank you for its warmth and candor. I read your words twice—first for the beauty of the prose, and then for all the unspoken emotions woven between the lines. Your understanding of loss and the strength it takes to move forward truly resonates with me, and I find solace in knowing that, despite the distance, there is someone who sees beyond the surface.
Your research into religious symbolism in early Sumerian mythology is utterly captivating. The notion of dreams serving as divine messages connects us to our ancestors in a profound way—a reminder that the mysteries we grapple with today were once the very fabric of ancient belief. I share your admiration for the ancient world; if I were free of my current obligations, I'd love to trace the footsteps of history along Ireland's rugged coastlines and perhaps even explore the lesser-known corners of our past where silent battles were fought and won.
I confess that your mention of dreams in Sumerian lore intrigues me. Is it the mystery of ancient interpretations that draws you in, or is it the poetic way these civilizations integrated the divine into daily life? And beyond your academic pursuits, what passions fill your days outside the library and lecture halls? Do you, like me, find small reprieves in a well-steeped cup of tea or in a quiet evening walk beneath the stars?
To answer your question about my own academic journey: as I teach modern history here in Ireland - a subject I hold close to my heart - my focus has always been on the human elements—the revolutions, the cultural renaissances, and the quiet, resilient defiance that have shaped our national identity. There is an undeniable thrill in unearthing stories that define us, even as I grapple with the personal loss that shadows my every day. Losing Lauren, and now learning to be both a father and a mother to Ellie, has left a mark on me that I carry into my lectures and into every interaction. I may live here, but life currently does not allow me to divulge this luxury. Perhaps one day soon.
Your kind words about my book choices brought a small smile to my face. All the Light We Cannot See and The Shadow of the Wind are indeed masterpieces that echo the timeless dance between light and shadow, hope and despair. They remind me that even in the midst of our darkest hours, there is beauty waiting to be discovered.
I eagerly await your thoughts on these questions and more about your world—both within the corridors of ancient civilizations and beyond them. There is a rare magic in these exchanges that nourishes the soul, a reminder that even amidst loss, there is always space for connection and growth.
With warm regards and anticipation for our next exchange,
Adrian
After a long pause, Adrian read through his email once more, the soft hum of his laptop and the rhythmic patter of rain in the background offering a sense of calm. Satisfied that his words were genuine and true, he clicked "send" and leaned back in his chair. In that quiet moment, as the digital message journeyed across the miles, he felt a subtle shift—a gentle nudge toward healing and connection, reminding him that even in grief, there is hope for new beginnings.
❝ The light filtering through her window in that soft, golden way that made everything seem possible had been the reason she had risen earlier than usual that morning. Her first class—Ancient Iconography and Cultural Identity—was mercifully short, with a guest lecturer from the Anthropology department giving a breezy overview of symbolic lineage in pre-dynastic Egypt. Normally, she'd be furiously scribbling notes, cross-referencing deities and motifs, but today, she let her mind wander just a little.
She had time...
After class, instead of her usual beeline to the library, she had slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the warmth of a rare sunlit afternoon. Spring had finally come to life in the city, the trees dressed in that eager early green, and the air carried the smell of thawed earth and blooming things.
Heading to the park, her park, really, the one tucked just beyond the edge of campus with the looping trails that wound through the trees older than the sidewalks that bordered them.
There... she walked.
Slowly...
Deliberately...
She let the sun press against her skin, feeling it chase the library's fluorescent chill from her bones. She watched dogs tear down grassy slopes, couples holding hands, and an old man feeding breadcrumbs to a surprisingly bold squirrel. The world felt slower today, gentler somehow.
The hunger had kicked in by late afternoon, and she knew exactly what she wanted.
She had turned down the familiar corner near her apartment, the little bell above the door of Marcello's chiming as she stepped inside. Her favourite table by the window was free, like it had been waiting for her. She ordered without looking at the menu; spaghetti Pomodoro, simple and perfect. She'd eaten it a hundred times and would gladly eat it a hundred times more. It was her comfort dish, her weakness. A plate of pasta and a cold Pellegrino.
Bliss...
She lingered there for a while, watching the street through the glazed glass, turning Adrian's last email in her mind. She hadn't opened it yet—had wanted to wait until she was truly ready to sit with it, not rush. She respected his words too much to skim them between errands.
When she finally made it home, the sky had turned peach around the edges. Her thesis drafts glared up from the desk in silent protest, but she ignored them. Tonight wasn't for deadlines or citations.
She opened her laptop, clicked into her inbox, and read...
His letter was more than she had expected. It was thoughtful and kind, and it bore the same undercurrent of quiet sorrow that made her heart ache in an unfamiliar way. She paused for a long time when she reached the part about Lauren again—how he folded his grief into his world, into being a father, into simply continuing. She found herself wondering how someone could carry that much and still write so beautifully... so generously...
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long while before she began to type.
❝Dear Adrian,
I have to confess something right away...
My favourite food is pasta.
Not the fancy kind either. Just a perfect plate of spaghetti pomodoro with a good olive oil and crusty bread on the side... Delish! There's a little Italian place down the street from my apartment, Marcello's, and it's my version of heaven placed on earth. I went there today, actually. Sat by the window and watched the world roll past while I pretended I wasn't avoiding my thesis. (I absolutely had been! But don't tell anyone...)
It had been a short day for me, just one lecture this morning, and instead of diving back into the research like I normally do, I took a walk through the park on campus. It's quite and full of winding trails and tall trees. I know every turn, every bench, every crooked branch that leans out over the path. It was bliss to just be outside, to let the sun remind me that there is a world outside of deadlines and footnotes.
You had asked what passions fill my days beyond research... I honestly had to think about that. Sometimes I forget. I get so caught up in ancient texts and tablets, and trying to prove something, (to myself, mostly), that I forget the things that make me feel... human.
But I do love photography...
I carry a little film camera with me, and when I remember to pause, I like to capture quiet moments...
The curve of a worn stairwell, the blur of trees in motion, or the way the lights hit the spine of a book, just right.
I also love old music. I've been favouring 80s Euro-vastion of late... I don't know why, but Simmon Lebon's voice in the 80s was so different. One would think he'd been the first victim of auto-tune. There's just something different about it.
Oh, and I've recently started learning how to bake, though I am still better at burning cookies than actually making them taste good. (Progress is slow.)
Your question about 'what draws me to dreams and divine communication'—honestly, I think it's because those stories feel deeply personal. The idea that someone could receive a message from the cosmos in the dead of night and let it shape the fate of a kingdom... It's both awe-inspiring and deeply intimate. I think we still look for signs in our dreams, even if we don't admit it. Maybe it's just human nature to want meaning woven through the darkness...
I loved what you wrote about your students and Irish identity—that search for understanding through the past... There's dignity in that, in preserving stories, not just for the sake of knowledge, but because they still live in people's bones.
So now, I have a few questions for you. (Don't worry, they're not going to be graded.)
1.) If you could live in any historical era for a year, where would you go, and why?
2.) What's your favourite comfort meal? The one thing that always tastes like home?
3.) Is there a moment in your life you'd relive? Not to change it, but just to feel it again?
I hope Ellie is doing well. I know you didn't ask, but if she ever needs a pen pal too, I happen to have a rather extensive collection of crayon-worthy stationery and a knack for drawing, very silly dinosaurs.
Thank you again, for your words and for your honesty. These letters have become something I look forward to, more than I had expected.
Warmly,
Amie
(only my friends get to call me that )
She read through the letter once more, heart full in that tender, quiet way, before hitting send. Then she closed her laptop, drew her knees to her chest on the couch, and let the day settle around her like a well-worn blanket.
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.
❝ It'd been days since she'd last written, though not through lack of trying. Life, with its habitual remorseless momentum, had pulled her down with it like the undertow of a rough coastline. Final exams had descended upon her like stormclouds: dark, persistent, and all-consuming. She'd weathered them on determination and far too much coffee, scribbling notes until her wrist throbbed and flipping over flashcards even in the bath. Her mind had burned like a library at the end of it all—but she'd survived. Barely.
And with the smoke at last lifting, she stood in liminal time: that strange, gasping period between semesters when time was both endless and brief. In this space, she had acted on instinct, applied to a dozen or so internships. Museums, archives, and research field sites. Most were stateside, but some were overseas. One, on a whim, had been in Ireland.
She hadn't dared to hope she would get it. It was a 'for laughs' sort of thing. A gentle tap of a button, a whimpering fancy: Wouldn't it be just what it would be? No message had come, and she didn't anticipate that it would. But occasionally, a small part of her glanced at her mailbox more times than she cared to admit.
Now, on a drizzly Sunday evening, with her half cup of speriment tea still steaming on the windowsill next to her, she finally turned on her laptop. Her fingers lingered momentarily over the keys before they began to type.
❝Dear Adrian,
I swear, I blinked and five days passed. Finals week has that effect on you—entering a time warp where everything smells faintly of highlighters and existential dread. But somehow, I made it through. There's something strangely satisfying about turning in that last paper, don't you think? Like exhaling after having been holding your breath too long underwater. I suppose you might feel that way after the last paper has been graded, hmm?
To avoid throwing myself headfirst back into thesis work, I started applying for internships. A few, actually. Two regional museums, a preservation initiative out West. And one in Ireland, as it turns out. I saw the listing and rolled my eyes at myself as I submitted my application. I haven't heard a word back, (and won't), but getting to wander cobbled streets, eat too many scones, and record dusty relics somewhere other than in fluorescent casing? It was too lovely to pass up.
And actually, I don't want to spend my entire summer stuck away inside a classroom. I want to be out in the world, getting the type of experience that gets mud on your boots and stories in your pockets. Academic life is wonderful, but I'm discovering just how easy it is to forget how to live when you're spending all your time proving yourself.
How are the two of you, really? I've found myself thinking about you and Ellie a lot in these past few days. I imagine her days to be slightly lighter now that summer is upon us, though I am unsure if your school schedules are similar to ours in the States. I hope there are moments you can sit back and take a breath. I realise you carry a great burden on your shoulders, but I hope there are still moments in your day that are just for happiness.
Thanks, incidentally, for trusting me with such personal memories. That instant of Ellie's infancy... the way you described it, it was as though I held something precious in my hands for a moment. I don't take that for granted. Your words stuck. They always do.
I'll answer your questions in my next letter—I want to give them proper justice. But for now, I'll put it this way: one of the things I am sort of proud of is that I've stuck around. Stupid, I know. But there were years in which everything felt precarious, and it would have been simpler to just... walk away. To try something less complicated.
But I didn't. I stuck around, and I think that counts.
This evening, I plan on retiring early. The world feels muted tonight. Everyone is going back home now that class has ended for most of us. My camera sits on the shelf beside my bed, waiting for the next journey. Maybe tomorrow I'll take her out for a walk...
Until then, sending the warmth across the miles, from my quiet corner of the world to yours.
Yours,
Amie
P.S. Because I said I would, here is something I scribbled during an exam a couple of days ago. It's not on the fancy stationary, but it is with coloured marker!
She read it again, as she did every time. And then she clicked send, shut her laptop softly, and leaned back in her chair.
The street outside sparkled with puddles and the bright stillness of cruising automobiles. Tomorrow would come quickly, with its drafts and unread emails, but for tonight, she indulged herself in the stillness.
She smiled, then rose to get ready for bed, already looking forward to the letter that may come in the next few days.
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.
❝The light from the morning's sun drifted in through Amelia's curtains, casting warm bars of light across her bed. She slowly woke, burrowing into her blankets for a few more sinful moments, and then she finally rolled out of bed, turning off the alarm that had begun to ring.
Finals were over...
The always-present, gnawing pressure of deadlines and coffee-fueled nervousness had been discarded, and the world seemed a little less stressful that morning.
Starting her morning as usual: combing her hair into a messy bun, and the tea ceremony—Earl Grey this morning, brewed strong with a slice of orange peel from the orange she ate while it steeped. Her apartment felt unusually quiet without the background tension of scholarly anxiety. With her cup in one hand and a piece of lightly burnt toast with raspberry jam to mask the burned flavour, she sat by the window, watching a woman in the other building beat out her rugs.
Her camera was in her bag by mid-morning, and she slipped out the door with her journal wedged in with her camera and a spare roll of film, just in case.
She took a stroll along the borders of the park and then on down a turning path that ran along the canal. She paused often, sometimes for ducks, sometimes for silhouettes on weathered stone walls. She snapped a photo of a little boy wearing a bright yellow jacket chasing pigeons, his face flushed with that wild sort of joy children never try to rein in. An older man and woman walked by, arms wrapped around each other's waists. The woman praised her boots. Amelia took their picture after asking, capturing the soft intimacy between them as they both laughed at something too quiet to be heard.
At the bridge, she dropped to her knees to frame wildflowers that had forced themselves through cracks in scuffed-up pavement. Grime and beauty—she adored them together. She'd nearly finished the roll before the clouds started clouding over again, faintly battered with rain.
When she arrived back at her apartment, her legs ached just enough that the couch would be heavenly. She changed into her most comfortable hoodie, made another pot of tea, and sat down. She opened her laptop only then, already smiling over the shining familiar light of Adrian's name in her inbox.
❝Dear Adrian,
Today turned out to be one of the better days I have had this week. The wind had a bite to it, but the sun was generous, and I let myself wander with no destination in mind. It was pleasant to be out in the world again, camera in hand and no exam schedules dangling off my heels.
I walked a good way along the canal. There was also a boy with the brightest yellow coat you've ever laid eyes on—he was set on rounding up every pigeon in the city. His laughter was infectious. I caught him in mid-laugh, mid-chase. Then, I encountered an older couple walking hand-in-hand, and after a bit of chatting, they consented to let me photograph them. It came out wonderful—I can already tell that from the way light played around her silver hair and the way his eyes only landed on her.
I'm always surprised at how many stories are hiding out there, waiting to be found.
And by the way, speaking of stories, I have some news to tell you about Ireland. I nearly spilt my tea when I opened the email, but… I've moved on to phase two of the selection process. I have no clue what that's like (interviews, maybe?), but they advised me to keep an eye on my inbox sometime in the next week or two. I submitted it half in jest, but now… I'm having this odd mix of shock and nervous hope. Imagine me in Ireland, scribbling notebooks in damp cafés and getting irretrievably lost in green rolling hills. Could be something, couldn't it?
Now, to answer Miss Ellie's very important question—and do please inform her that I took this Very Seriously.
My non-boring dinosaur! The Therizinosaurus. She was a freak bird—giant scythe-like claws, thick neck, feathers (yes, feathers!), and probably one of the most laughably bizarre gaits of the Late Cretaceous. Scientists think she was herbivorous, but with claws like hers, who are we to say she didn't steal the attitude of the flesh-eaters? Basically, she looked exactly like a hellish chicken from another world!—and I kind of love her for it.
I'm still smiling at the thought of Ellie putting in toast and waiting for a tree of bread. That's the kind of thinking the world could use more of. Give her an extra hug from me, and make sure she knows I fully approve of toast-based farming.
And you, Adrian—try to be kind to yourself. I know the days can suffocate, even when they're quiet. Especially then. But I hope, even when still, you sense how much you're still connected to her, to Ellie, to this peculiar and lovely world.
Love and hugs to Ellie (and unicorn astronauts),
Amie
She leaned back, reading through it again with a gentle smile, then clicked send. The laptop lid closed quietly, and she leaned back further into the couch cushions. One minute later, she reached for the remote.
Trash TV this evening, she thought—something gloriously bad with excessive music and shaky plots. She'd earned it after a day of light and strangers and good news.
The TV flickered into the room, casting blue shadows on the walls. Amelia put her feet up and let out a contented sigh.
Adrian's days blurred together in a familiar rhythm of gentle chaos.
The morning began when Ellie did. Sometimes that was with a clatter - her tiny feet thudding down the hallway like a one-child stampede - other times with her face inches from his, whispering, "Daddy, I dreamed about clouds that tasted like cake." Those were the good mornings. He'd learned to treasure them, because others began with tears, the kind of heartbreak only a child could express in wordless sobs that asked for someone who wouldn't be returning.
He kept the kitchen stocked with bananas, peanut butter, and oat biscuits. They were easy staples, things Ellie liked. She'd taken to standing beside him at the counter lately, dragging her step-stool into place and "helping," which often meant getting more flour on the floor than in the bowl. It didn't matter. Her laughter was worth it.
When he wasn't teaching or grading papers, he was Ellie's jungle gym, artist assistant, or pirate captain. This past Wednesday, she insisted on drawing "very important animals" and presented him with a crayon masterpiece featuring a bright orange Therizinosaurus with spiky purple claws. "For Amie," she'd declared proudly. "Because she knows about dinosaurs. I made her favourite one."
Adrian had smiled - really smiled - as he taped it to the side of the fridge.
At night, once Ellie was tucked in and her room filled with the low lull of ocean waves from the sound machine, he sat by the kitchen window, reading Amie's last letter over and over. Her words felt like balm. She had a way of speaking to the world, and to him, that made everything feel less sharp. Even when he didn't realise how much something had been hurting.
And tonight, after Ellie fell asleep snuggling a plush hedgehog and the house finally exhaled into quiet, Adrian turned back to his laptop, the little dinosaur drawing beside him. He opened his inbox, saw Amie's name, and felt his breath hitch slightly.
He began typing.
Dear Amie,
You wouldn't believe how quickly the Therizinosaurus took up residence in our household. Ellie insists on calling her "Therry," and I've now read her the same dinosaur encyclopedia entry four nights in a row. She carries the drawing you sent like it's treasure. "My pen pal is so smart," she told me yesterday, chin tilted up with the gravity of a royal proclamation. Then she asked if we could visit you "after naptime." I told her the airplane might take a little longer than that.
Thank you for the picture. I can't quite describe the joy it sparked. There's something oddly healing in watching a small human take wonder seriously.
And congratulations on the internship update! I have to admit, I felt an embarrassingly paternal sense of pride when I read that. Ireland would be lucky to have you. If you do end up here - even temporarily - I will absolutely be recommending the best scones within a 100km radius and all the forgotten abbeys I can think of. There's a field near Drombeg where the sheep outnumber people fifty to one, and the sky always feels too big. You'd like it, I think. It's got the kind of silence that listens back.
You spoke of the boy in the yellow coat and the older couple - Amie, I can see them through your words. It's a rare thing, that gift. Not just the ability to see, but to notice. I imagine your photos carry that same quiet reverence, the same heartbeat of observation. If you're ever feeling particularly brave, I'd love to see one or two.
Now to your email's most pressing matter: toast trees.
Ellie has begun tracking its "growth" with a magnifying glass. She's convinced there's "bread energy" underground. I asked her what we'd do if it sprouts. "Make sandwiches for all the sad people," she said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. That girl… she breaks and repairs me in equal measure.
Your letters feel like an exhale. You write with such honesty, and that honesty has become something I look forward to more than I can explain. These nights feel less hollow when I read your thoughts. It's not often you find someone who makes silence feel shared.
Also, you once asked me what moment I would relive - not to change it, just to feel it again. I've been thinking about your version of that, too. I wonder what moment you'd visit, just to be inside it again, for a few heartbeats. You don't have to answer, of course. But if you feel like telling me, I'd love to know.
And… if you ever do come to Ireland, well - there's a little girl here who's convinced you'd like toast trees and dinosaur stickers and who thinks your name is spelled "A-M-Y but with a little twirl." I haven't corrected her.
Until then, keep wandering with your camera and your thoughts. They're changing more than you know.
With warmth, always,
Adrian
P.S. here is Ellie's version of the Therizinosaurus, with a little help.
His finger hovered over the trackpad for a moment longer than necessary.
Not out of hesitation, exactly - more reverence. Sending letters to Amie had become something different now. At first, it had been a distraction. A ritual. But somewhere along the way, it became a tether. Her letters pulled him back from places he didn't want to dwell in for long. Grief had narrowed his world to a corridor of responsibilities. Amie's words widened it again.
He looked at the dinosaur Ellie had drawn, now laminated (thanks to a very determined three-year-old and a roll of tape). It was absurd and beautiful. Amie had somehow become part of this quiet household rhythm, a thread woven into their daily joys.
He clicked "Send."
And for the first time in a while, he didn't feel like he was writing into a void.
❝The apartment was unusually still when Amelia woke the next morning, the kind of quiet that felt suspended—peaceful, with just a hint of anticipation. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting watery beams across the floor. She lay there for a while, blinking up at the ceiling, her body cocooned in the afterglow of knowing that no exams were looming. No lectures to prepare for. No panicked student group chats buzzing with last-minute questions.
Just time.
She shuffled into the kitchen, bare feet warm against the tile, and started a slow morning with coffee instead of tea, just for a change. The beans were too dark, but she didn’t mind. The bitterness was grounding.
Most of her morning had passed in fragments—laundry tumbling, half-finished books reopened, then set aside again, replaced by something fluffier and easier on the brain. She read on the couch with her legs tucked under a blanket and the window cracked open just enough to let in the scent of city rain on stone.
Later, she wandered out to do a bit of shopping. Nothing pressing, just odds and ends—more toothpaste, a new notebook because she couldn’t resist the one with the linen cover, and an impulse purchase of marshmallows shaped like stars. But it was in the toy aisle of the corner shop, of all places, that she stopped short.
There it was. A fluffy unicorn.
Its mane was a swirl of pastel blues and pinks, and it had an expression of permanent delight stitched across its snout. Amelia picked it up, feeling faintly ridiculous at first. But something about the soft plush and the way its glittery horn caught the light made her smile. She thought of Ellie—of toast trees and very important dinosaurs—and, without thinking too hard, placed it in her basket.
Maybe, if the internship in Ireland worked out, she'd find a way to gift it to her. A quiet little hope took root in her then, gentle and improbable.
Back home, she checked her email again. No update yet. She didn’t expect one today, but she couldn’t help herself. Every time her inbox loaded, her breath caught. Still nothing.
She curled up again, this time with her laptop balanced on her knees, the unicorn perched beside her like a small pastel sentinel. She opened Adrian’s latest letter, already smiling, and began to read. By the end of it, her cheeks hurt from smiling. She took a breath, clicked Reply, and began to type.
❝Dear Adrian,
First of all, I’m printing Ellie’s Therizinosaurus and putting it on my wall. That tail! That colour choice! She’s clearly a visionary. I adore that she named her “Therry.” Honestly, it feels like the kind of name that belongs in a picture book. You’ve both made my whole week.
I spent today doing the usual post-finals meandering—books, a bit of laundry, and then some low-stakes shopping that turned delightfully rogue. I came home with toothpaste, yes… but also a fluffy unicorn. It’s about the size of a loaf of bread and looks like it was designed by a team of sleep-deprived fairies. I’m blaming Ellie entirely for this purchase. Her joy about Therry inspired me.
There was a moment in the shop—me holding this ridiculous unicorn with its sparkly eyes and far-too-happy face—where I thought: If Ireland happens… maybe there’s a way to get this to her. I don’t know how yet. But the idea made me feel strangely hopeful. I haven’t let myself feel that way in a long time.
And thank you, again, for your words. You always make space in them—not just for your thoughts, but for mine, too. I never feel like I have to be clever or polished with you. Just present. There’s such comfort in that.
You asked what moment I’d revisit—not to change, just to feel. I think… it would be one late summer evening a few years ago. I was house-sitting for a professor, and they had this little cottage out near the coast. No signal. No noise but wind and the distant sea. I lay in the garden with a book I never opened, just listening to the tall grass shift and watching the stars come out one by one. For a while, I forgot time entirely. I think I’d like to return to that evening, not to change it. Just to breathe in that kind of quiet again.
I hope Ellie’s toast tree is flourishing. I can think of no better purpose for its bounty than sandwiches for all the sad people. The world would be a softer place if we all took our cue from her. Please thank her for the drawing and tell her she’s officially my dinosaur consultant from here on out.
And as for you, thank you for writing me. Thank you for making the space for this. I don’t think you realise how much it’s meant to me.
With care, always,
Amie
P.S. I’d love to share a few photos. I’ll be brave and attach one or two next time. Maybe even one of the unicorn, if you promise not to laugh.
She read it over once, then hit send. The unicorn sat on the arm of the couch, its little smile unbothered by anything in the world. Amelia reached out and gave it a small pat, like it might purr.
Then she leaned back, letting her head fall against the cushion. The quiet was warm tonight. Not empty—just still. Her inbox didn’t have news yet, but hope had a foothold now. And that, she decided, was enough for today.
The last few days unfolded with the weary, familiar rhythm of a life carefully stitched back together. Adrian moved through them with the quiet precision of someone who had learned not to expect ease, but to create it where he could. The mornings belonged to Ellie. She had declared that cereal was "for boring Tuesdays only," and thus every other morning became a test of his creativity. Thursday's offering had been dinosaur pancakes - misshapen but approved. Friday, toast arranged into a smiley face, though the blueberries slid off the moment he placed them. Ellie giggled anyway, which meant success.
He juggled it all - parenting, emails from department heads, the slow pile-up of final essays to grade. His brain often felt like it was stuck in molasses, particularly after nights when Ellie cried out in her sleep. She never remembered why. But Adrian always woke with his heart racing, an ache in his arms from holding her too tight.
Still, the world outside was shifting. Summer was seeping in, lengthening the days, softening the edges of their routines. Ellie spent more time in the garden now, crouched in the grass with a plastic watering can shaped like a turtle, checking on the toast tree's "progress." There was still no sprout, but she remained faithful. "It's a secret tree, Daddy," she told him. "It grows only when nobody's looking."
He couldn't argue with that kind of logic.
The unicorn drawing from Amie would join Therry on the fridge when it arrived. Ellie had stared at it for a full minute the day it arrived, her expression solemn. "She gets it," she'd whispered. "She gets dinosaurs." And just like that, Amie had become someone real to her, not just a name Daddy typed letters to at night.
Adrian's own thoughts drifted often toward that inbox. It surprised him, how quickly the expectation had formed - not of obligation, but anticipation. Amie's letters had become part of his quiet, a companion to the silence that used to hang heavy in the house. He thought of her when the kettle boiled. When Ellie said something so profound it left him momentarily speechless. When he passed the university gates and wondered what it would feel like to meet her, not as a name behind a screen, but in the real, unfiltered world.
So when the email came that evening, just after Ellie had finally fallen asleep with a sticker book under her chin, Adrian was already halfway to his desk before he realised he was moving. He opened it with a quiet kind of gladness.
And then, he read.
Dear Amie,
You have no idea how big I smiled reading this. Actually, scratch that - you probably do. You have a way of writing that makes me feel like you're right there in the room, laughing as you describe the unicorn the size of a loaf of bread (which, incidentally, might be the most accurate unit of measurement I've heard all week). Ellie will be thrilled to know she inspired such an excellent acquisition. She's already claimed that when we meet you - note, not if, but when - you'll need to ride a unicorn to prove you're "an official friend of Therry." I warned you. She's setting the bar high.
Your description of the cottage by the sea stopped me. I could see it - the tall grass, the way the stars appeared one by one. I think there's a kind of sacredness in those moments, isn't there? That feeling when you forget yourself, forget the ticking of time, and just are. I don't think we get many of those in life, not really. Maybe that's why they linger. Thank you for sharing that memory. And for your letter - your honesty. I feel, always, like you're offering something real, not just conversation for conversation's sake, but something with weight and care.
As for Ellie - she has framed your dinosaur consultant declaration in the only way she knows how: by creating an official "Dino Club" chart taped to her bedroom wall. You're currently the honorary president. Therry is the mascot. I am, apparently, the snack coordinator.
I'm so glad you let yourself feel that spark of hope about Ireland. Whether it happens or not - and I still hope it does - you allowed yourself that moment. That matters more than we realise sometimes. And for what it's worth, if you do find yourself over here, I know one little girl (and her very grateful father) who would be ecstatic to finally meet the woman behind the magical mail.
Now, my turn for a few questions, if you're willing:
1. You mentioned your journal—what kind of things do you write in it? Daily details, dreams, bits of stories?
2. What's something you've always wanted to learn but never quite gotten around to?
3. And—if you could give your younger self one sentence of advice, what would it be?
Also, I am absolutely holding you to that unicorn photo promise. No laughing here, just admiration. Though I will say: if it's even half as charming as the mental picture I have, it's already iconic. Until then, know that your words are treasured here. Truly. And thank you - for every letter, every smile you pull from me, every thought you send across the miles.
With warmth always,
Adrian
P.S. The toast tree remains… elusive. But we did get a few dandelions next to it. Ellie's decided they're "early signs of bread bloom." I haven't the heart to correct her.
He sat for a while after typing the last line, his fingers hovering near the trackpad, not out of hesitation, but from the strange desire to stretch the moment. There was something sacred about this quiet hour, this gentle ritual. In the hush of the house - Ellie's small breaths from down the hallway, the soft buzz of the fridge, the night pressing softly against the window - Amie's words glowed warmly on his screen.
He imagined her there, in her city across the ocean. Maybe curled on her couch with the unicorn beside her, maybe still smiling as she hit "send" earlier that day. Maybe, just maybe, thinking of him too.
He read his letter once more, then clicked Send. And as the screen blinked and the message vanished into the ether, he let out a slow breath, the kind that carried more than air—a little gratitude, a little hope, and something else too. Something unnamed.
Then he glanced over at the drawing of Therry. He smiled. There was still grief. Still weight. But beneath it, a small, persistent thing had started to grow. Connection. Light. Possibility. And tonight, that was enough.
❝She had slept restlessly the night before, the unknowns of summer threading themselves into her dreams—her inbox, Ireland, the way her name might look on a custom form, scribbled hastily in black ink. The idea of going had bloomed like a slow, stubborn bud. What started as a whim—one box checked among many others—had grown roots.
The campus was quieter than usual. A few students mulled about with backpacks slung over their shoulders, others were sprawled out on the green with iced coffees and study guides for the ones taking summer classes not offered during the Fall or Spring semesters. Summer hadn't quite arrived in full, but there was promise in the air—a light that lingered longer, shadows that softened more easily.
She could have waited. Grades would roll into her inbox eventually, and her to-do list was already long enough with applications and passport renewals. But something had drawn her back. Maybe it had been the restlessness. Maybe it was a quiet pull toward something unfinished.
Weaving through the familiar hallways, her messenger bag at her side with her camera tucked inside, and a knot of hope wound tight within her ribs. After checking in with her department's admin to confirm transcript requests, she turned down a hallway she had avoided most of the year, past the board of scholarship announcements and international placements.
There, in his cramped, paper-stuffed office, sat Professor Leary, the head of the Ireland summer placement. He looked up, surprised but not unpleasantly so.
"Miss Parker," he greeted, standing and gesturing toward the extra seat across from his desk. "You've got fantastic timing. I just finished going through the last of the personal essays."
She sat across from him, her hands folded in her lap, carfefully schooling her voice to sound professional despite the thudding in her chest. "I just wanted to thank you for the opportunity," she said. "And... maybe ask if there's been any movement yet?"
He studied her for a moment, as though weighing how much he could share.
"We've narrowed it down to four candidates," he finally confessed. "You're one of them."
The words hit her like a Mack truck. Not a confirmation, but not a 'no'.
Not yet.
"Your submission," he continued, "stood out. It has curiosity and reflection. You don't just study the world and its past—you notice it and seem to revere what once was. That counts for more than you think."
Amie smiled, not trusting herself to say anything that would crack around the edges.
"We'll be sending final decisions within the week," he added, a small smile hinting at the corners of his mouth. "But if I were you, I'd... keep an eye on your email."
She left his office blinking against the sun, her spirits still high, but now threaded with something else: hope.
On the way home, Amie ducked into the neighbourhood grocery store just down the way from her apartment. The inside smelled faintly of cinnamon and shelf wax, something that reminded her of when she went shopping with her grandmother. She wasn't sure why she went in, only that her feet led her inside. Once within, she wandered the aisles with slow intention, her fingers brushed over things she hadn't eaten since she was a little girl.
She picked out a small bag of sour cherry taffy, a box of peanut butter cookies, and a package of liquorice twists. A few absurdly sugary breakfast cereals with mascots grinning like cartoon cult leaders had found their way into her basket. Then, turning the aisle, she couldn't resist grabbing up two boxes of mac and cheese—the kind with the orange powder that wasn't found in nature—a childhood favourite.
These weren't gifts for anyone. At least, not yet.
But maybe... they would be.
She arranged them neatly in a canvas shopping bag on the counter when she got home, next to her journal and the unicorn plush she still hadn't found the heart to stuff into a box. Then, finally, she sat down with her laptop, the night quiet around her, and opened Adrian's last letter.
❝Dear Adrian,
The unicorn has officially taken up residence on my bookshelf. She's watching me write this wth that sort of wide-eyed wisdom I'm sure Ellie would understand perfectly. No name yet, though I suspect that isn't my job to decide. I think I'm just the caretaker.
I've just come back from campus, actually. I met with Professor Leary, the one running the Ireland internship. There's no news yet, but... I'm in the final four. He said my writing stood out. I tried to act like that didn't make my heart nearly stop in my chest, but I'm not entirely sure I succeeded. I've been checking my inbox like someone watching the pot, waiting for the water to boil.
So no confirmation. Not yet. But I did pick up a few of my favourite snacks today, just in case. Little things that remind me of home... or maybe to offer to new friends, should the universe will it so.
Now, to answer your questions...
1.) My journal is a bit of a magpie's nest. Little scraps of overheard conversations, dreams, (half remembered and badly spelt, I might add), to-do lists, pressed flower petals, old ticket stubs from random events or museums, and sometimes pages of thought that don't know what they want to be. It's more chaotic than curated, but maybe that's the charm of it. I heard someone once call what I have managed to create, a "junk-journal". That term made me laugh, and it is rather accurate for what it happens to be. I think Ellie would appreciate it.
2.) I've always wanted to learn sign language. I started once, but stopped during a busy semester. I keep meaning to pick it back up. There's something beautiful in a language built entirely on presence, on attention. Silence can be powerful.
3.) One sentence to younger me? "You don't need to know where it leads to start walking." I think she would have rolled her eyes at me... but maybe kept walking anyway.
Now, if I may turn the question back on you: What treats do you and Ellie love? Anything you miss from childhood? Something you'd never think to buy for yourself but would secretly love to receive?
Also, please tell Ellie that the unicorn is very excited to meet Therry and learn all the official Dino Club rules. I imagine she'll need a badge of some kind. I hope that her toast tree is still under careful observation. I believe in quiet growth, especially the kind that happens when nobody's watching.
Sending warmth and well wishes from across the Pond.
And maybe, if the stars align, I'll see the other side of that pond soon.
With love and a little bit of summoning magic,
Amie
Reading over the letter once, she let her fingers hover over the button before she clicked send. Then, with a quiet sort of contentment, she turned off the lamp and let the soft glow of the laptop screen fade to black as she curled up on her couch.
The unicorn watched from its perch, guarding the snacks that sat in the canvas tote on the counter.
Her eyelids were heavy and she let them drift closed, her last thoughts being of a green isle that housed the toast tree in the world.
The days since his last email to Amie had slipped by in a blur, consumed by the quiet chaos of paperwork and parenthood. The house, always alive with Ellie's bursts of laughter or indignation, had taken on a new sort of hush during the evenings - a stillness he both welcomed and resented. The calm gave him room to breathe, but also space to feel too much.
Most of his focus recently had gone into preparing Ellie for preschool. Forms, immunization records, schedules, clothing lists, meetings. He'd expected it to feel administrative and dry, but instead it felt like crossing a border. A new chapter was beginning, whether he was ready for it or not. He tried to frame it as a proud milestone - his daughter growing, learning, stepping into the world—but pride came knotted with grief.
This was the kind of transition Lauren would have approached with her usual efficiency, knocking out the paperwork in an afternoon while making it seem effortless. She had always had that gift - an ability to make the complex seem simple. He missed that about her, the competence, the presence, the way she'd lightly joke about him fussing over things she'd already solved. This moment, this threshold in their daughter's life, was meant to be shared. Not navigated alone.
And yet… he wasn't alone, not completely.
Amie.
Her name had started surfacing in his thoughts with a strange ease, as if his subconscious had already decided she had a place in this new rhythm of his life. That realization unnerved him. She wasn't a replacement, and he wasn't looking for one. But still, she was there. Listening. Sharing. Showing up in his inbox with warmth, curiosity, and an openness that disarmed him. For the first time since Lauren's death, someone was making space in his emotional world, not by demanding it - but by gently, naturally existing in it.
And there had been Ellie's open morning at the school. He had felt more anxious than she had - tight-throated and uneasy, while she charged in, all smiles and curiosity. She had taken to her teachers with immediate trust, her classmates with a charm that seemed instinctual. Watching her blend so easily into this new world both filled him with awe and cracked something in his chest. She was growing. Fast. And he was doing this without Lauren.
That evening, after Ellie had gone to bed - still rambling excitedly about glitter glue and snack cubbies - Adrian found himself standing at the kitchen window, watching the sun melt behind the hills. The warm, golden silence pushed him toward his laptop.
There were things he needed to say to Amie.
My dear Amie,
It's been an emotional few days. Ellie is set to start preschool in just a few weeks, and the weight of that milestone has hit me harder than I expected. There's a strange ache in watching her grow into this brilliant little person, equal parts joy and grief. Lauren should be here for this. She would've made it look easy, too - she always did. Meanwhile, I'm here fumbling through forms and trying to keep my emotions from spilling over like a broken tap.
But I'm grateful for you. For your words. For this growing space between us, even if it's digital. You somehow remind me that I'm not as alone in this as I sometimes feel.
I'm so damn thrilled about your chances with the Ireland program. You're going to get it - I know that in my bones. You're too brilliant, too tenacious not to. The idea of you walking the same streets I do, breathing in this same summer air, makes me... hopeful in a way I wasn't expecting.
Ellie was delighted the unicorn made it across the Atlantic. I promised I'd ask her to suggest a name. I'm honestly surprised she let me post it without one - small miracles.
As for childhood sweets - penny sweets were my vice. You could walk into the corner shop with twenty pence and walk out with a treasure trove of sugar and artificial colourings. Tangy cola bottles, gummy snakes, fizzy sherbets. Enough to rot your teeth and light up your brain. Inflation has done me a favour there; Ellie's indulgences are far more boutique. These days, our favourites are warm pastries from the bakery and 99 ice creams at the beach. Do you know what a 99 is? I'll wait and see if you do before I ruin the mystery.
That journal of yours - it sounds like something out of a fairytale. Part spellbook, part confessional. I hope it finds a way into your travel bag, if the program brings you here. And maybe, just maybe, I might get a peek inside, if you're feeling brave enough to share some pages.
I love what you wrote about sign language. It is beautiful, isn't it? Like watching thoughts made visible. I had a friend in college who was deaf - taught me a few signs over pints and pub quizzes. I haven't used them in years. Wonder if they're still hiding somewhere in my brain, waiting to be dusted off.
The toast tree, by the way, is still technically alive. Though I suspect the birds may have made off with most of it. I haven't had the heart to tell Ellie. She still checks on it like it's the Tree of Life. I give it a week or two before she forgets it exists, and then I can retire it with dignity.
Sending you warmth, across land and sea. And something else too - something I haven't quite named yet, but that stirs low in my chest when I think of you.
Yours,
Adrian
Adrian stared at the screen for a few minutes after finishing. He re-read the last paragraph, wondering briefly if he'd gone too far. Then again, it was honest. There was no blueprint for this - grief, fatherhood, connection. Life hadn't left him a manual. All he could do was show up, heart-first.
His finger hovered over the mouse for a beat longer than necessary. Then he clicked send.
The message slipped into the digital current, on its way to Amie.
And just like that, the silence of the room felt a little less heavy.
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