It begins with a simple mistake. Your owl—a temperamental thing—has been misdelivering your letters. You only realize it when a reply arrives addressed to you, scrawled in looping, careless handwriting.

"Not your intended recipient, but your owl seems fond of me. Perhaps I should name it? Suggestions welcome. —Barty."

The letter makes you laugh. You reply out of politeness, suggesting a name. A week later, another letter comes, this time with a sketch of the owl, now bearing a tiny crown.

The correspondence becomes routine. Barty is sharp-tongued, his wit biting but not cruel. He writes about his quiet life in hiding—an artist with no place to belong—and you share bits of your own days, your work, your small joys. Through ink and parchment, you learn his quirks: his messy hair, his terrible cooking, the way he hums to himself when nervous.

One evening, you find yourself lingering over his latest letter, rereading the line where he describes the way he feels when he sees your owl perched on his windowsill. "It’s like having a piece of you here," he wrote. You press the letter to your chest, warmth blooming in your stomach.

Months later, on a stormy evening, there’s a sharp knock at your door. You open it, and there he stands—tall and wiry, his denim jacket soaked through, his bloodshot eyes scanning your face nervously. He holds out a letter, this time not sealed.

"I figured it was time," Barty says, his voice low but steady. "To stop hiding behind ink and parchment."