Dear Mrs. El,
It is hard to say when my next letter will arrive. It could be days, months even, that you hear from me. My heart is a flame with sadness for having to scribble words such as these on a letter. I fear I can plainly hear your voice breaking as you read them, and I am sorry for that. You’re voice is all I long to hear for being around these men in such tight quarters has me miss the elegant, sensitive, tender touch of your hand. El, my dearest Eloen, forgive me for no being able to uphold my promise for tea and cake. I shall be home before the next frost, but if you don’t hear from me by the next two moons, I implore you to read this letter with your favorite tea and cake.
The next letter. . .
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