When the butler, Reston, informed her of a visitor, Crecyda was using a small chisel to smooth the outline of a flower stem: a five-petal flower engraved on the surface of a stone paperweight. She hadn't yet decided what color to paint it.

She put down her work and walked to the northwest corner of the small workshop, opening the door.

"Who's here?"

The butler hesitated. "Mr. Durado."

Crecyda frowned slightly, then removed her apron. "Let him wait. I'll change clothes and go out."

She wiped the grayish-white powder off her hands, then returned to her bedroom and changed into a plain yellow dress. She had only worn this dress twice this year: once at a banquet hosted by the mayor for military families, where she spoke as a representative of the soldiers' wives, and the other at a friend's daughter's wedding.

Crecyda left the bedroom and entered the living room. Durado Marvin sat on the sofa, his gemstone cane, which he had used for over thirty years, resting across his lap. When she entered the room, Durado didn't turn his head. The butler stood stiffly at the other end of the sofa, casting a pleading look at Crecyda.

"Father-in-law, I didn't expect you to come," Crecyda said.

Durado still didn't turn his head. "You seem surprised. Of course, it's not necessarily a pleasant surprise."

Crecyda sighed heavily in her heart. After exchanging just one sentence, she already felt the conversation was hard to continue. To avoid being too rude and to restore some semblance of normalcy, she sat down on the sofa opposite him and instructed the butler to serve her tea.

"It's too cold," Durado said.

"What? You mean…" She glanced at the fireplace.

"I'm talking about the tea," he said, tapping the tray with his right index finger. A hexagonal diamond on his knuckle gleamed. "It's not hot enough."

"I'll have Reston bring you another cup…"

Durado shook his head. "There's nothing worth drinking anyway."

The butler gave Crecyda an especially troubled look before leaving.

Durado kept his head down, allowing Crecyda to observe him carefully without feeling awkward. They hadn't seen each other, nor had any contact, for at least five years. And now, the conversation between father-in-law and daughter-in-law started with cold tea—she thought this was quite a rare situation.

Judging by his appearance alone, Crecyda wouldn't say he had aged five years, but more like fifteen. Perhaps it was an illusion caused by his luxurious attire; this once-prominent businessman, who had controlled half of the fine cloth trade between the Alliance and the Horde, projected all his commercial success onto his wardrobe. She'd once heard a joke: if someone kidnapped Durado Marvin, there'd be no need for ransom—just stripping him of his clothes would do. His overly ornate clothes only accentuated the deep wrinkles on his face, making him seem older and more decrepit.

However, despite his usual sharp, difficult manner of speech, Crecyda saw deep fatigue etched into Duldor's face.

"Did you come here alone?"

"I can come however I please."

Crecyda shifted slightly backward. So, he did come alone.

Durado raised his head, and the wrinkles between his eyebrows spread out to either side. He cleared his throat, then exhaled to disguise his hoarse voice. She sensed what he was about to say.

"Is Renner not here?"

"He was transferred three years ago…"

"I know he's in the Western Plaguelands," Durado interrupted. "Hasn't he been back recently?"

"He returned once last October." October 10th to 15th, she recalled, though there was no need to give such exact dates.

"October." He repeated it.

"Do you need to see him?"

Durado didn't answer. Crecyda suddenly realized how foolish her question sounded, but given the long-standing estrangement between father and son, she hadn't known how else to phrase it. "You could go to the Western Plaguelands directly; his unit is…"

"Of course, I know all that. I have no intention of going to the Western Plaguelands."

"…Oh." She nodded. "Then you've come today to…"

"Are there any letters?"

"What?"

"I asked if he's written home recently."

As soon as Durado finished speaking, he took a sip of tea. Although he tilted his neck back, by the time the cup returned to the tray, the tea level had only slightly decreased. It seemed that the cheap tea was truly hard for him to swallow. He let it sit in his mouth for a moment, his cheeks puffing out, before finally swallowing it. His brows furrowed, revealing a mix of irritation and anxiety, as if he regretted asking the question and needed to rinse it away with the tea to erase its lingering taste.

By the time Crecyda realized she had unintentionally smiled, it was too late. Her father-in-law's displeased gaze fixed on her, but to her surprise, it quickly softened. He lowered his head again and said, "Are you not going to answer my question?"

"Yes," she replied, "he's been writing regularly."

"Bring them for me to see."

"Uh, the most recent one?"

"All of them," he said. "Bring them all."

"I'll be right back." Crecyda thought to herself that it must have taken some courage for him to bring this up, which explained the awkward tea-drinking gesture. She stood up and quickly went to the bedroom, opening a wooden box she kept deep inside the bookshelf. The box was carved with patterns she had made herself.

As her hand reached inside, Crecyda felt a bit conflicted. She realized that this sharp-tongued old man, who had remained outside of her and Reynar's lives for so long, was now suddenly asking to peer into the very letters that had connected their hearts over the past three years. It didn't seem quite fair. After a brief internal struggle, she took out the letters, reasoning that if Renner were here, he wouldn't refuse his father's request.

Holding the bundle of letters in her hand, she felt a subtle but real weight. She returned to the living room and placed them in the center of the tea table. There weren't many letters, but each one was thick, giving the pile a substantial appearance. She preemptively explained, "Communication over there has always been difficult, so whenever he has the chance to send a letter, he likes to write a lot."

The letters, all in matching envelopes, resembled a stack of military documents at first glance. Durado stared at them, the grayish hue in his eyes reflecting a silent light. Crecyda noticed his knee twitch slightly, causing the cane resting on his thigh to roll a bit.

"Read them to me," Durado said, lowering his head again. His posture didn't signify rejection or withdrawal; it was more like an effort to muster courage.

"Aren't you going to read them yourself?"

"I've never liked his handwriting."

The most absurd excuse in the world, she thought. She had never seen anyone's handwriting more neat and beautiful than Reynar's. Moreover, these letters had no signs of correction, clearly carefully rewritten.

"Which one would you like me to read?"

He randomly pulled one out and handed it to her. "This one."

Crecyda took it and pulled out the letter. She didn't need to look at the date on the envelope to know when it had been sent. She took a deep breath, skipped over the salutation "Dear Crecyda," and began reading. Her voice wove through the floating dust particles suspended in the sunlight in the living room.

"Slower," Durado said after about a line.

"Oh." She adjusted her pace slightly. This letter had been sent about three months after Reynar's arrival in the Western Plaguelands, during a time when the war was not going well for the Alliance. Renner briefly mentioned in the opening that he was adjusting to the work and wrote, "You don't need to imagine things here as being too terrible."

After reading five or six more lines, Crecyda paused and lowered the letter in her hands.

"Why did you stop? Keep reading."

Crecyda glanced at Durado. His eyes were almost closed, clearly unaware of the change in her expression.

"I said keep reading."

It seemed there was no room for negotiation. Crecyda didn't completely mind sharing these letters with others, so she raised her voice slightly and continued reading:

"…You can imagine, one of the new soldiers' favorite things to do is talk about their wives or girlfriends. The thing they probably miss most at those times is a bottle of beer. These conversations often turn into good-natured teasing, and if they escalate into small disputes, as their officer, I have to put a stop to them; but truthfully, I fully understand their feelings. Stopping such talk makes me feel dishonest, because I'm always thinking about you…"