Have you heard the stories? Tell of the silence that swirls in the mocking calm of a town visited and left.

Tales of the few remaining, the messengers spared not out of mercy, but amusement. They wander cursed earth, heads sagging, heavy with whispers not born of their body.

My Dearest Cilia,

I am grateful to say I have my health, but I'm afraid I am far from well. A few days ago, I saw something out in the field.

I say “see,” but to experience it was something beyond sight.

I write for I fear for my soul.

The sun was out that day.

At least I believe it was; it didn’t feel warm, but at the time my memory strongly suggested it should. Only in retrospect did I question this anomalous lack of heat.

The birds were singing, but I say “singing” only out of habit. The sounds I heard were harsh and cruel, shrill and unforgiving.

I didn’t remember the world feeling this way when I went to bed. All the same, I woke and went out to check on the harvest we’d gathered the day prior.

I would describe . . . it . . . only if I could, and only if my mind didn’t fall to fever at the idea of—NO! I’m afraid I will not be describing it. You may think me selfish, as I write simply for someone to know of my torment. To help me bear it.

Cilia, to be with it, was to no longer know myself. The world felt mad, and when it passed, I fear part of me never returned. Though for the life of me I couldn’t begin to tell you what part is missing.

Give me the moans of the dying and the chaos of the city any day.

But these things. These things I thought only to be rumors, wandering the fields and forgotten places . . . to be near was to wish I’d never existed.

How I should like to see you again.

Maybe the touch of a friend will brighten my spirit.

Do write back soon.

Your friend,

Francesa