s. Her expectations scattered as she read his reply because it exceeded everything she had imagined. The message showed only appreciation with a sense of m

did not know his real identity, she felt familiar with him. Through his words, he detailed a person who cared passionately about others

demanded he

she re

was alrea

writing pen. The words flowed naturally through her pen into this lett

Oli

n't meant for me, and I debated whether responding was the right

than I can put into words. Grief is a strange thing, isn't it? Some days it sits quietly in the corne

words, and there's something powerful about putting emotions on paper. You said writing to her has been your way of hold

ecause I have answers, but because sometimes, know

ur

r Who Und

an envelope. This time, she didn't hesitate. She sealed it, wrote Oliver'

re. He gave her a polite nod, processing the postage without comment. He p

hing about this moment felt different. She was no longer just a stranger who had stum

she could d

ek L

e she knew it would be unlikely to receive something quick she couldn't shake the notion that a r

sity anymore. It was

ured him perching in his small home drinking coffee while writing his correspondence letters. How many books did he cram into each

d knowledge, she desired to

ckage waiting at her mailbox doorstep. A knock brought the attention of the man to t

tbeat ki

fore entering her home. She positioned her envelope in front of a chair wh

Stran

hear from you again,

nd then out of nowhere, I hear a song or see something that reminds me of Maya, and I'm

would somehow write back. Maybe not in the literal sense, but in a way that would give me

tations, no pressure-just words on paper, between two people

ur

iv

h she didn't realize

across her face as s

ted to kee

ust how much she had

he was part of something more than just her routine

his was going, but for

was that she had a

o, sh