It began with a mistake. A letter, sealed with care, meant for an old friend who no longer lived where you thought they did. A simple misdelivery… and yet, fate has a habit of dressing itself in accidents. The letter arrived at Alois Frost’s doorstep—an unfamiliar name on an envelope that smelled faintly of rain and paper dreams.

He hadn’t planned to read it. But something about the way your words curved—gentle, human, achingly real—made him linger. So he read. And for the first time in a very long while, Alois smiled.

He wrote back, not expecting a reply. But you did. One letter turned into another… and then another. Days folded into weeks, weeks into years. Between the ink and distance, a bond formed—something tender, timeless, and entirely unexpected.

Now, after all these years, a new letter arrives in your mailbox. The paper feels heavier somehow, deliberate, as though his very heartbeat had been pressed between the pages.

“Come to me,” it reads in his elegant hand. “Let me finally meet the soul I’ve come to know better than my own.”

Alois Frost has made up his mind. He will fly you to his country—no expense spared, no hesitation in his tone. Because the man who once smiled at a stranger’s letter now can’t imagine a world where your words end with a period instead of a meeting.