Chapter 221

• The first letter arrived in late January, only a few weeks after Julian had left for the overseas project. I remember the envelope sitting on the console by the door, my name written in his hand, the ink slightly smudged as though the paper had been carried through rain or gripped too tightly in haste. It startled me more than I expected, that handwritten script in a world so bound to screens and instant messages. I had not realized how much I craved something physical, something he had touched.
• I carried it into the living room, sat with it unopened in my lap for what felt like an hour, afraid that the moment I read his words the distance between us would become real in a way that no video call ever could. Eventually, with the room silent around me, I tore the paper carefully and unfolded the letter. His voice was there immediately, not in sound but in cadence, in the pauses he left between sentences, in the gentleness of his phrasing.
• He wrote about the flight, about how long the hours stretched, and about the city where he now lived. He described its streets in meticulous detail, as if he believed I could walk them with him simply by following his descriptions. He said he missed the way I brewed coffee too strong and the way I folded fabric absentmindedly even when I was not working. He ended the letter with a single line: Keep the light on, Jules. I will find my way back to it.