I was recently cleaning out an old family desk when I came across a stack of letters bound with a faded blue ribbon. The paper had gone brittle with age, and the cursive writing looked like something from another world.
Every loop and flourish had a kind of rhythm, almost like the writer had danced across the page instead of having written on it. I couldn’t help but imagine the life behind each carefully penned word, a voice reaching across decades to meet me.





