First, at the boy’s house table—it was practically the first time I’d been to another kid’s house besides Rosette and Bash’s—I listened to why that boy liked his target.

Just saying ‘love at first sight’ without reason lacks persuasiveness. Unless you’re someone crazy about romance, most people would easily dismiss it as a nice-sounding excuse.

So I listened to ‘why he likes that girl’ in detail. Fortunately—is it really fortunate?—my client’s reasons for liking his target were clear.

He said her body sparkles like a dolphin when she swims. He said her hair tied without special decorations suits her well, and he can’t help but be drawn to her bouncy gait.

I wrote the letter by pushing this client’s pure feelings to the extreme.

Writing letters isn’t difficult. I filled the paper by moderately varying and using ticklish words—who knew I’d personally write those unrealistic words I’d read in books in my life.

I wrote it right there on the spot. I showed it to the client as soon as I finished.

He was very satisfied and handed over the payment, and I had the client copy my letter. And some time later…… news came that my client’s pure feelings and my letter had borne fruit!

I was very proud.

It was more satisfying than safely finishing homework or writing to the end of a thick notebook. Cas, it was truly the first time I felt such satisfaction.

It’s amazing. I didn’t taste a cake I’d never seen before, nor was I the first to read a new publication. Even if a favorite author left a signature at the beginning of a book, I couldn’t feel this way.

Anyway, the first commission ended well. And second and third commissions followed in succession.

Somehow word got out—probably my first client couldn’t keep the secret—and people who couldn’t organize their emotions into sentences flocked to request letter writing services.

You’d be excited asking ‘Are they all love letters?’ but no.

There were thank-you letters to mothers and apology letters to grandfathers. There was even a letter to keep a lover who’d left for the mainland in check.

Thanks to that, I’m the richest I’ve been in my nineteen years of life. I could buy ink, pens, and several new books without asking grandfather.

I even gave grandfather a new belt instead of his worn-out old one. Our grandfather uses his belongings until they’re frayed and falling apart.

Until his granddaughter gives him a gift!

Grandfather was very surprised. Very pleased. He was curious how I got such money but didn’t persistently pry.

Lucio was smiling meaningfully beside him as if he knew everything. He’d grown much closer to Rosette in recent days, so his disposition had broadened. The brat who would have subtly chattered about what I was doing before was quiet.

Maybe he stayed still because he was bothered.

These days each day is reasonably satisfying. Lucio, completely smitten with Rosette, no longer makes strange requests. Our letters seem to be outside his interest now.

It’s fortunate.

Because I want to be the only one who knows about exchanging letters with the thoughtful and kind boy living at the northern end.

It’s getting hotter. The leaves have changed from fresh green to deep green, creating broad shade.

Even the vacationers who stayed avoiding peak season have all left. Iota is quiet as always. The waves are calm, and the strong workers are busy carrying goods brought from the mainland.

Among them should be the magazine I ordered from the bookstore. I should go to the bookstore in three days.

I miss you.

April 30th

Sent by Asha]

[To Asha, excellent writer and friend

If I address you this way, you’ll repeatedly deny it saying ‘What kind of writer am I for writing a few letters?’ But does being a ‘writer’ require so many conditions?

You write, and you’ve even earned money from that writing, so you’re a proper writer! Without needing to convert it to monetary value, without relying on others’ recognition.

If you’re really bothered by it, try submitting something to a magazine or newspaper. You might become a ‘real writer’ that even you acknowledge. Of course, I already think you’re a ‘real writer.’

If I say more, you might crumple up the letter, so I’ll stop here.

These are days when outer clothing has become much lighter. All the snow in the village has melted. It drizzled a little this afternoon, so my room window still has stains from the splashed raindrops.

When I open the window, I smell damp earth, the scent of trees blowing from the mountains, and the fragrance of unripe fruit. I lean my upper body out far enough not to fall and look around.

It rained quite a lot at dawn, so people from the city couldn’t come. If they’d run diligently, they would have arrived around lunch, but they probably postponed their schedule because their wheels got stuck in mud or they were afraid they might.

Thanks to that, I had the leisure to write a letter at ease today.

It’s been a really long time.

Still, nothing special happened. As I often did when I had time to spare, I looked at the inappropriately displayed paintings and wrote you a letter.

With a very, very large sea right before my eyes. When I close my eyes and stay still, it seems like I can hear fairy songs. On rainy days, those voices easily flow down over the mountains.

It’s not the kind of dangerous sound that enchants people like in fairy tales. Even if it were, it couldn’t affect me……

Just a faint sound leaking out because the teapot lid wasn’t closed tightly enough.

Are you still playing piano? I don’t think I’ve heard news of you playing piano lately. I’d understand if you got bored. I couldn’t be a ‘young master’ sitting patiently in front of the keys either.

I’d twist my body, run out to the mountains, go around the village several times before sitting back down on that black, long bench.

Back then, during the harsh winter, I’d twist my body so much that I’d even play using the estate stairs as a slide. I couldn’t even imagine spending time with knitting or embroidery.

I didn’t know either. That ownerless scarves and gloves would pile up like this. A person has one neck and at most two hands, but I diligently moved my hands every harsh winter.

Now that I think of it, I should play piano after sending this letter.

Though I asked you subtly, I too haven’t played a complete melody in quite a while. At most, I’d hum tunes or tap on my desk using it as keys.

Are the half-written notes still waiting for me? I wouldn’t be too surprised if they escaped outside, tired of waiting.

Then it wouldn’t be strange that the musical inspiration faintly remaining in my head disappeared.

Someday I want to hear the performance of the pianist said to play piano best in the kingdom. Since news reached even this mountain village, they must have extraordinary skill, right?

They performed before royalty and held solo concerts in the kingdom’s largest hall. A third of the sheet music I gave you was composed by that person.

You said the pieces you received then were difficult and you’d put them off. Can’t you play those pieces now? If you haven’t put piano down from that day until now…

I’m not rushing you.

Really.

I’m not rushing you.

I just want you to know the pieces I like. If I could, I’d play those pieces for you directly, but unfortunately our mail carrier can’t carry my voice or my performance.

It’s regrettable.

Yes, truly regrettable.

Being able to exchange letters faster than regular mail is itself a symbol of miracles, yet I keep feeling something is lacking.

If the delivery person going from the northern end to the southern end knew, they’d be angry calling me a shameless child. If they had a language to communicate with me.

I have so much I want to say to you.

When I write letters, it seems like half of it flies away. Even though there’s no other means to explain besides letters.

It’s probably because of the rain. Rain is precious in Kasoche. That must be why.

Your Carol

P.S. ‘Your Carol’—that’s too embarrassing, right? I didn’t intend to burden you or anything like that. I swear, Sha, it doesn’t mean much. It’s just a simple expression, so I hope you won’t find it too strange.]

[To Carol

I’m writing this letter hastily.