❝ 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.
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