Dearest Johnathan,

I hope this letter finds you well. It seems as though all the letters I have sent previously had made no progress; but one must not let the angel fly far without wings. Noella’s success seems to be less because of her own intelligence and more because of her husband’s, but that is neither here nor there. Her child will grow up rich and away, and I suppose that is all that matters.

The Western front is not doing well, Johnathan; we get messages every day, and they do not reach us well. I hear stories of the women out on the front lines, too, and they never end well. It would do you well to stay away, Johnathan, at least for the next few months years. 

The politicians, at least, have their wits about them downstairs. The men who shout the loudest to me in the late hours of the night are those with the most uncensored voices. Their ideas are outrageous but evoke the same feeling as those on the wooden floors of Parliament. It is strange to me that those voices are the ones I hear the most and not the ones creating the laws that I (must) follow every day.

Johnathan, please do not take any of this to be a falsity. Your safety, as well as mine, are put in jeopardy while my ink touches this page, while this letter is in hand, while this letter is being read by your eyes and your eyes only and yet I carry on. I wait for the day when we can meet again, but for now, there must be silence.

Please burn this letter, please burn it soon, and please tell no one.

Sincerely yours, 


Found the ashes of a burned down house in Europea, late 2078.