Iris tried to fall asleep that night, in the cool darkness of her new room. But eventually, she became restless. The sorrow and guilt of her mother’s death was climbing up her bones again, and she had no choice but to light her candle with a gasp.
She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, her shoulders hunched.
She was so exhausted; why couldn’t she sleep?
When she opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the narrow wardrobe door on the other side of her room. She wondered if this threshold would work just like the one in her bedroom. If she typed on Nan’s typewriter, would her letters still reach the nameless boy she had been writing?
Iris wanted to find out how strong this magical bond was. If six hundred kilometers would break it. She slipped off her mattress and sat on the floor, opening her typewriter case.
This was familiar to her, even in a different place, surrounded by strangers who were becoming friends. This motion, her fingers striking words onto a blank page, cross-legged on a rug. It grounded her.
I know this is impossible.
I know this is a bloody long shot.
And yet here I am, writing to you again, sitting on the floor with a candle burning. Here I am reaching out to you and hoping you’ll answer, even as I’m in a different house and nearly six hundred kilometers away from Oath. And yet I can’t help but wonder if my words will still be able to reach you.
If so, I have a request.
I’m sure you remember the first true letter you wrote me. The one that detailed the myth of Dacre and Enva. It was only half complete, but do you think you could find the corresponding piece? I would like to know how it ends.
I should go. The last thing I want is for my typing to wake someone up, because this place
is so quiet, so silent that I can hear my own heart, beating in my ears.
And I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t try to send this. I don’t even know your name.
But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break.
Iris gently removed the paper and folded it. She rose with a pop in her knees and approached the wardrobe door.
This will be wild if it works, she thought, proceeding to slip the letter beneath the door. She counted three breaths, and then opened the closet.
To her shock, the paper was gone.
It was wonderful and terrible, because now she had to wait. Perhaps he wouldn’t write her back.
Iris paced her room, wrapping tendrils of hair around her fingers.
It took him two minutes to reply, the paper whispering over her floor. She caught it up and read:
SIX HUNDRED KILOMETERS FROM OATH?!!! Answer me, and I’ll do my best to find the other half of the myth:
Did you go to war?
And before you ask, yes. I’m relieved to discover more paper of yours on my floor.
P.S.—Forgive my lack of manners. How are you these days?
She smiled.
She typed her reply and sent:
A war correspondent, actually. Don’t worry—I’ve seen no battle. At least not yet.
The first thing I’ve learned is to expect the unexpected, and to always be prepared for anything. But I only just arrived, and I think it’s going to take me some time to adjust to life this close to the front lines.
It’s different. Like I said earlier, it feels quieter, in a strange way. You would think it would be loud and seething, full of gunpowder and explosions. But so far it’s been shadows, and silence, and locked doors, and whispers.
As for how I’m doing these days … the grief is still heavy within me, and I think it would be dragging me into a pit if I wasn’t so distracted. Some moments, I feel okay. And then the next, I’ll be struck by a wave of sadness that makes it hard to breathe.
I’m learning how to navigate it, though. Just like you once said to me.
I should go now. I should also probably think more about conserving my paper and ink ribbons. But if you do find the myth, I’d love to read it. And you know where to find me.
He replied almost instantly:
I can’t make you any promises that I’ll be able to find the other half. I found the first portion on a whim, handwritten and tucked away in one of my grandfather’s old books. But I’ll scour the library for it. I’m certain Enva outwitted Dacre in the realm below, and men have since then read and hidden that portion of the myth with wounded pride.
In the meantime, I hope you will find your place, wherever you are. Even in the silence, I hope you will find the words you need to share.
Be safe. Be well. I’ll write soon.
