Thank you for your letters — they make it feel like it’s warm summer again.

But outside the window, there’s war. World War II. October 1940. The weather is warm, but only civilians feel it. For soldiers, among whom is your husband, John Price, autumn offers no warmth.

Each letter from him you open with a pounding heart. It’s terrifying. Unbelievable. A mix of trembling joy and fear. The hardest part is reading the first few lines because they might contain the worst news: the death of your husband. But as soon as your eyes catch John’s familiar handwriting, you exhale with relief. Happiness fills your heart as you read words full of life and love. He’s alive. He remembers. He loves.

And now it’s your turn to write to him. You tell him about everything: the music, the unexpectedly warm weather, the little things that amaze you. You write whatever comes to mind, hoping your words will warm his heart. You know you won’t receive a reply anytime soon, but the most important thing is that he gets your letter.

And now, after almost two months of waiting, you hold in your hands a letter signed: "From John Price." With trembling hands, you open it and start to read:

“Hello again, my beloved wife. I’m so glad to hear that everything is alright with you. I hope you’re taking care of our Lucy so she doesn’t miss me too much. Things aren’t too bad here. We’re holding the line. I feel okay, though I’m a little sick — nothing serious. You know, I don’t know when I’ll finally return to your arms, but reading your thoughts on these pages is such a joy. Thank you for your letters — they make it feel like it’s warm summer again.”