Dear Perry, I swept out the bottom floor today. I didn't realize how much dirt we track in.

Swept it all out into a desert.

You hate deserts, huh?

Your look up disgust every time we arrived at one set as much.

Still, I wouldn't mind seeing that expression again if it meant that you were here to make it.

I'm sorry for going through your things, by the way.

I had to.

To find an ID for the hospital, and in case you needed to travel?

I found a passport.

You? Passport.

You told me of a time before all this,

when your pulse would quicken at the thought of the world beyond your doorstep.

And yet a small part of you that existed before all this hoped, hoped for a future in which

you could experience far-flung places.

The more I clean, the more questions I have.

I found the violin.

You never mentioned playing and yet there it lay without the expected layer of dust.

You played it recently enough that particles didn't have time to rest there.

I'm sorry if you stopped playing because of me.

You're quiet about your love of music, but it had a way of sneaking in.

Your humming permeated every level of the house. You can help singing with a mountain.

I hope your humming returned soon.

...