The first letter arrived in late January, only a few weeks after Julian had left for the overseas project. I remember the envelope sitting on the console by the door, my name written in his hand, the ink slightly smudged as though the paper had been carried through rain or gripped too tightly in haste. It startled me more than I expected, that handwritten script in a world so bound to screens and instant messages. I had not realized how much I craved something physical, something he had ...