I drop the shirt, letting the fabric fall back into place, and my feet carry me almost of their own accord to the table nearby. There, amidst scattered papers and an old ink bottle, I find a blank sheet and a pen. Writing has become my strange, fragile solace in these moments of overwhelming loneliness and uncertainty. So, I sit down, my hands trembling slightly, and begin to write.
They're letters to Thorne, each one a piece of my heart put to paper. Sometimes they're simple, filled with the mundane details of my daily life: what we ate that day, how the garden is coming along, or the small, silly things Mimi did that made me laugh. I tell him about our daughter, about how she's growing so fast, about her laughter that echoes through the empty halls. I paint pictures with words, trying to make him feel as though he's here, sharing these moments with us.
