I don’t know that you could possibly mean what you said in your last letter. I read it in the clearing, sitting on that old stump you like so much. The trees leaned away from it as if I were holding live flames in my hand rather than a creased and ink-splotted piece of paper.
You’ll tell me that of course they didn’t, and I’ll just say did too, and we’ll go back and forth until you’ve again convinced me that I’m seeing nothing but wind where I’m certain there’s something within it.
There is a fundamental break in how we communicate, you and I. We use the same language, similar words, sometimes even the same ones. Yet your confidences are as foreign to me as mine are to you, and I haven’t the faintest idea sometimes why we carry on this charade of intimacy when everyone around us knows it’s as solid as eggshells.
Now to the necessary prosaic niceties, as I don’t care to argue more. It exhausts me.
How is Silvanfall? Drake and I looked it up in the almanac together and tried to trace back the name’s etymology since there are no silvans on the coasts, but we were disappointed. It’s been such a long time since I heard the waves — do at least tell me you’ve dedicated some time to sitting beside them. If you haven’t, this is my homework for you. I put up with enough of your shit; you can do something so simple as sparing a few moments to watch the tide come in or go out.
I’ve enclosed a scarf Drake knitted for you. He says it’s woven with love and spun from the depth of our affection for you. He made me include that sentence. He says he hopes you like the colour.
From archived correspondence, undated, time of writing likely 5819, summer.
Note from Vanhelm University’s Antiquities Department: have been corresponding with a professor at Draketown who thinks he has the answer to this letter. Will include copy once it can be authenticated.
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