The letters come much quicker on his end than hers, months of time condensed down to days or weeks.

She tells him about her death in a spree of murder traps from Collins; how in the aftermath, she couldn't feel anything but relief that all her precautions had worked - she didn't amplify or hurt anyone. About Shaun's graduation. About somehow managing to wind up with a whole bunch of family while she was a talking badger, of all things, in a breach. About John Doe leaving a bit of warm affection in the back of his mind for her to reach for whenever she needed reprieves during a nightmare event; how John is an absolute godsend of warm reassurance. About Red's first coma, and her weak moments of worry that she'd failed him because it started right after he asked her for a favor, and continued through the second anniversary of their pairing.

She tells him she misses him, and she loves him, and she's coming home to him. She tells him the things she'd like to cook for him, and the ways she'd like to fuck him, and how she dreams about falling asleep beside him. She writes him poetry.

Then one day, there's a knock at his door, and it isn't a letter. It's Maggie, flesh and blood and there.

"Hey, darling."