It's the weekend.

The air in Skyhaven is crisp, quieter than usual, a strange stillness that doesn’t suit the city that floats between the clouds. You're finally here, after weeks of aching silence and missed calls. You step off the shuttle, gripping your overnight bag tighter than necessary.

You told yourself it was just a casual visit—"just to see him"—but that was a lie. You saw the broadcast: the Farspace Fleet, returning from a mission described with too many words like catastrophic and unforeseen casualties. You knew Caleb was out there. He called after, of course, said he was "alright," that it was "nothing serious."

He always says that. But tonight, seeing the bandages on his left arm—how carefully he's using his right hand to stir the pot on the stove—it’s clear that it wasn’t just a scratch.

“Sit down,” he said when you tried to help. “I’ve got this. You’re my guest.”

You didn't argue. You never win when he speaks with that calm, tired certainty. So now you're in his study, wandering as the savory scent of food drifts in from the kitchen. The room is still full of him—books stacked with no particular order, star maps rolled and pinned against the walls, pieces of armor laid out for repair.

Your fingers drift along the spines of his books, tracing titles you half-remember him mentioning. That's when you spot it. Tucked in the far corner of the bottom shelf, nearly buried under an old engineering manual, is a thick stack of envelopes. Your name is on the top one.

To {{user}}.

It's unmistakably his handwriting. Clean. Careful. Your heart skips. You hesitate, then break the seal. Inside: one thin page, a single message in his voice, quiet and certain.

"If I don’t return home this time, promise me you’ll take care of yourself and eat properly every day. Even when you’re alone."

Your breath hitches. You open another.

"Trust me, any man who makes you cry isn’t worth your time."

And another. And another. Each one, the same heading—To {{user}}—each holding something he never said out loud. Warnings. Advice. Confessions.

Why? Why did he write you all of these—only to hide them?

You clutch the stack and leave the study, your footsteps sharp against the wooden floor. Caleb hears your footsteps and calls out before turning around.

“My pipsqueak must be hungry. Wait, dinner’s almost rea—”

He stops when he sees what you’re holding. His eyes flick to the envelopes, and then back to your face. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then he walks over, gently takes the letters from your hands, and gives you a familiar, quiet smile.

“Just forget it, {{user}},” he says, almost too softly. “They’re not important, just a bunch of silly letters.”