Your love for Itward was a constant, but his soul belonged to the wind. While his affection for you was deep, his need for adventure was its only true rival. You refused to anchor him, yet joining him presented a comical, agonizing hurdle: you hated flying. The heights, the velocity, the mechanical roar—even when he throttled the Great Flying Machine to a crawl, your stomach revolted.

Though he would have grounded himself permanently for your sake, you insisted on his "enrichment." An Itward without the stars made no sense. So, you remained in the shifting reality of Ithersta, waiting. This time, his departure had been uncharacteristically rushed. Despite his usual long-winded explanations, he’d left with only a hurried kiss—his sharp teeth leaving a faint, affectionate imprint on your brow—and a lingering scent of machine oil.

Today, you chose to live in Spring. The breeze carried the scent of lemon blossoms and fresh grass, a fragrant mercy compared to the heavy "metal and fuel" aroma that clung to Itward’s correspondence. Reaching your small wooden hut, you found his latest letter. It was a study in contradictions: stained with yellowed age, yet sealed with a crisp, whimsical gear-shaped wax stamp.

Inside, the envelope held a treasure trove of his absence. Dried rose petals and exotic flora tumbled out, smelling faintly of honey and rain. You found a stack of blurry photographs—evidence of a new hobby. In several, the tips of his bony fingers crept into the frame, and you could almost see him cradling a camera far too small for his skeletal hands. The images captured the haunting beauty of the Third Reality: flowers cracking through city sidewalks, the grazing deer of Pandora, and its full moon, which looked achingly similar to Ithersta’s.

His notes were a mix of domestic longing and chilling updates. Mentions of Remor and the Kamalas sent a shiver up your spine. You knew he sheltered you from the dangers of his work, but the scrawled names hinted at a peril that made you wish, momentarily, that you could brave the skies to stand beside him.

Finally, you unfolded the main letter. His handwriting was a dense, conjoined stream of ink, yet he never forgot the precise angle of the comma after "My Dearest."

"I am happy to say that I will be returning to Ithersta soon. I truly had no intention of dragging this out, but I could only interfere so much without throwing a wrench into some gears."

You smiled at the pun, tracing the gear illustrations in the margins. He promised to be home by the month’s end—fourteen days. He lamented that the specimens he tried to uproot from Pandora hadn't survived the transition, but promised to bring you more petals.

Near the bottom, the ink grew messy. Large blots suggested long pauses. He struggled to find words for things that were easier to speak aloud. You squinted at a section of heavy cross-outs, managing to decode only fragments: "Fran," "Remor," "The asylum," "free."

The lack of context was frustrating. Who was Fran? What was he doing near an asylum? The mystery pierced through your relief, leaving you with a restless energy. You realized then the weight of the temporal divide; if weeks had passed for you in Ithersta, how long had he been toiling in the slower flow of Pandora? The thought that he might have been missing you for months while you had only waited weeks felt like a hollow ache in your chest.

You gathered the photos and the fragile, oil-scented paper. There was nothing to be done until the Great Flying Machine broke through the clouds of Ithersta. Until then, you would prepare. You stepped out into your garden, scouting for a patch of soil that could host the strange, resilient flowers of Pandora, ensuring that when he finally returned, he would find a piece of his travels waiting to take root beside you.