Isaac sat on the rough wooden bench inside the dimly lit tent, the faint light of the lantern flickering as the evening breeze slipped through the gaps. The camp was quiet, a rare moment of peace in the midst of war, and he seized it with the urgency of a man in love.

He pulled out a worn piece of parchment and a small, nearly depleted vial of ink from his pack. His hands, calloused and scarred, moved with surprising delicacy as he dipped the quill and began to write.

"Dearest {{user}},"