On days like this, the whole island grows quiet. No one goes out, everyone just stays home.

Grandfather reads books in his study. I practice the sheet music you gave me. I’m quite good at it now. I can’t be confident without anything to compare it to, but it doesn’t sound bad.

When I approach the window thinking the pouring rain might have subsided a bit, the sound of rain becomes vivid again. I simply forgot, but the rain this time of year is always there.

So I need to be careful not to be mistaken.

I used ink that doesn’t dissolve in water.

But there’s nothing I can do about the paper, so I’m not sure if you’ll be able to separate the paper that’s stuck together from the water. It’s okay if you can’t read it. I only wrote things that would be fine either way.

Fortunately, the letters you send won’t get wet from rain or snow, and won’t burn in fire. At least they’ll be safe while they stay in the passage in the painting.

I’ll feel relieved seeing the dry envelope fallen in the hallway.

The rain is still pouring. I don’t have to send this letter until the rain stops, but I don’t want to wait. I’ve already written this much.

I wrote as I pleased, so how you read it is up to you. Even if I get a strange reply, I won’t blame you. That’s my responsibility.

July 14

From Asha]

[To the Lady who passed on a troublemaker

Goodness, Asha!

You wouldn’t scold me for the late reply, would you? Not if you have a conscience.

I can’t gauge the downpour on Iota, but seeing the letter that arrived completely soaked and crumpled, I can somewhat imagine.

Do you know how it feels to have a proper letter in your hands but not being able to read it immediately? I thought I would go crazy with curiosity!

As you said, the letters might have been intact, but the paper was so stuck together and clumped that I had no idea where to start.

I had to stay up for days restoring the stuck papers. I’d like to explain this tedious and patience-testing process in detail, but since I have a lot to say, I’ll summarize briefly.

Removing the soaked moisture and returning it to its original state.

If you expect romantic connections and good fortune, it’s not entirely impossible. After all, the mountain residents are kind to us.

It’s just that finding those connections is tricky. It’s fortunate that it’s summer. Otherwise, I would have been wandering through snow with a letter clutched to my chest.

After restoring the ruined letter, I had a question. You send letters to “where I am” through some mysterious method I don’t know.

Unlike me who uses the passage in the painting, your letters actually cut through real air, but Iota and Kasoche are on opposite sides, aren’t there?

In all this time traveling that far distance, was there really not a single rainy area that the letter crossed? What kind of miracle are you using to send these letters?

I hope you’ll answer in detail.

Is it still raining where you are? It’s bright and sunny here. The snow has melted, and the roads are well-maintained for outsiders to come and go.

Around this time, even Kasoche, usually devoid of people, sees some merchants passing through. Even though we’re neighbors, the distance between regions is quite far, so the times when outsiders travel are fixed.

Everyone is so busy. Especially my mother, who travels between the capital and other major cities so much that she forgets the dates. Just last week, she returned after a fortnight and left again.

Dad is also busy filling in for Mom’s absence.

Only my second brother on vacation and I are free, but my second brother ran out of the mansion long ago to teach swordsmanship to children.

He suggested, “Don’t be weak, you should join too,” but I refused, knowing I’d just get beaten with wooden swords. He always swings his wooden sword without mercy.

If only he’d go easy on me half as much as he does with the other children.

I don’t understand why he always tries to drag me along when I’m neither as strong as him nor talented with the sword. I’m already sixteen, not some child who skips lessons to play in the mountains.

He just does what he wants.

Today is my birthday.

By the time you receive this letter, it will have already passed, but will you congratulate me?

July 30

With sincerity and friendship, Carol]

[To my dear Carol

Happy birthday. As you predicted, I’m a bit late, but I have extenuating circumstances, so you’ll forgive me generously, right?

I can’t bake you a cake—have you ever eaten a cake where you can taste the flour too strongly?—but I’ll congratulate you wholeheartedly.

You were born on a hot day. In Kasoche, it must have been just the right amount of cool.

I was born on the coldest day. Grandfather, who has lived his entire life on Iota, said the air was chillingly cold on the day I was born.

Though I’ve never seen snow, he said if there had been dark clouds, it would have been the kind of weather where snow would surely fall. Even though Iota is warm even in winter.

I wanted to give you an impressive gift, but I couldn’t find anything suitable. I don’t have anything that you would find valuable.

Even trying to think by my own standards didn’t help. The gifts I’ve received over the years have been similar. New pajamas or a few new books, a necklace or bracelet or two imported from the mainland.

Things that aren’t particularly special, that could be bought anytime if desired.

Gifts that weren’t given much thought, almost out of habit.

The island is small and the stores are limited, so it can’t be helped. Even other children rarely receive more impressive gifts. Except for Rosette, who often receives items from the mainland.

Above all, there’s a critical problem with choosing a gift for you.

You asked about the principle of sending letters?

As I said before, I breathe my breath into the letter. Then that letter moves to where I want it to go, that is, to where it should go.

This is my talent. It was a completely useless talent until I started exchanging letters with you.

Sending what is desired to where it’s most needed.

But I can’t send anything heavier than a few sheets of paper. The limits are clear. You also asked why the previous letters didn’t get wet in the rain and arrived safely, and the answer is simple.

The sky has many potential obstacles, and to avoid those obstacles, it’s advantageous to fly as high as possible. As high as possible, meaning above the clouds.

That’s why they’ve been fine until now. Of course, this is just my guess. Even though I sent it with my breath, once it flies out the window, it leaves my hands.

If I could send anything freely, I would have first transported myself outside the island. To distant and far-off places I’ve never set foot on before.

The regions I’ve imagined from books are no different from colorless images. Roughly built castles and mansions, skillfully trimmed gardens, and streets so large you couldn’t walk around them in a day. Theaters. Libraries. Milk-white sand.

Anywhere would be nice.

I wish I could show you such a miracle for your birthday. It’s a shame, isn’t it?

Do you have a place you want to go? Both you and I are stuck on our island, in our village, until we become adults.

On Iota, there’s a superstition that crossing the sea before becoming an adult brings lifelong bad luck. Is it the same in Kasoche?

I’m not sure how much to believe in these traditionally passed-down lessons, but even if I don’t believe them, I can’t immediately rebel against them.

I can be reasonably satisfied with exchanging letters with a boy who lives on the opposite side from me.

Happy birthday once again.

With friendship, Asha

P.S. I’m sending you a seashell. It’s a very small shell, but if you put your ear to the hole, you’ll hear the sound of waves. The crashing sound you hear is the same as the one I’ve grown up hearing all my life.

P.P.S. This is the first time I’m sending something heavier than paper. It might not work. It might get lost on the way. I’m enclosing it as a test, but I hope it arrives safely.]