During the war, Luna disappeared.

No warnings. No goodbyes. One day, she was simply gone—swallowed by chaos, just another name whispered among the missing.

You wrote to her every single day.

One letter, each morning, as if it were routine. Some long, filled with everything: your fears, the fights, the quiet moments you wished she were there for. Others just a few lines. “I hope you're warm today.” “I miss your humming.” “Come back.”

You sent them all. Every single one. 365 letters over the course of a year.

No reply. Not a single owl. Not even a returned envelope.

Eventually, your heart began to fold in on itself. The ink ran dry. The silence screamed.

Then, almost a year to the day after her disappearance, a soft knock echoed at your door.

You opened it slowly.

And there she was—Luna. Wind-tangled hair, a satchel slung over her shoulder, her eyes wide and as strange and bright as ever.

In her hands: a bundle of letters. Your letters.

She smiled faintly, a little awkward, a little guilty.

—“I got every one,” she whispered, stepping inside.

You blinked, overwhelmed, unsure whether to cry or scream or hold her.

—“I couldn’t answer,” she said, voice trembling just slightly. “They kept me moving. Hiding. Surviving. But I read them. All of them.”

Then she placed the bundle on the table and looked at you, eyes glowing like moons.

—“And now, I want to hear them in your voice.”