You hear Pedro for the first time on a quiet, sleepless night — the kind where the rain won’t stop and the city feels too big. His voice drifts through the radio, low and gentle, with that soft rasp that sounds like it’s carrying years of heartache and hope.

He’s calling from Seattle, talking about his late wife — how losing her changed the way he sees the world, how some nights he still reaches for a ghost. There’s something in his words that catches you — not pity, but the kind of love that refuses to fade, even when it hurts.

You stay up just to hear him finish. You don’t know why, but you can’t shake his voice.

Days later, you send a letter — small, thoughtful, honest. You tell him that what he said meant something, that it made the night feel a little less lonely. You never expect him to write back.

But he does.

And from that moment, something soft begins to grow — a connection made of quiet letters, long pauses, and the comfort of knowing that somewhere in Seattle, a man who once lost everything is learning how to feel again.