"London, 19th May 1918.

  To my distant Andermis,

  Francine has received your birthday gift, dear Andermis! She was overjoyed by your present and even asked when you would be coming back. It's strange how a doting uncle like you remembers her birthday, while her own father spends his days cloaked in gloom. I do try to sympathize with him, but every time I think about it, forgiveness becomes harder to find. And you know what? He's the one who prevented my earlier letters from reaching you. Augustin admitted that while he was in a drunken stupor. I can't bear to listen to anything he says anymore!

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Lately, there hasn't been much novelty, much like the enduring ache I feel for you from the very beginning. Landry, the girl I work with in the Society, is now a mother, her husband a soldier who was discharged due to an arm injury. Just yesterday, I visited her. Her pregnancy is only three months along and she still looks so small. Seeing Landry reminds me of when I carried Elizabeth; I was equally clueless then, everything was so new. I suggested Landry assist with desk work, so it wouldn't be too taxing and to help her feel capable. I was overjoyed when she proposed that I become her children’s godmother. Of course, I readily agreed! You know how much I adore children, don't you?

  I don't quite know what else to write; I just find myself missing you. Stay safe to return to me!

  With affection,

  Fiona."