She sent him pressed wildflowers between the pages of her notes:

These are starflower. They grow on the lower slopes. I thought you might like something that grew where you used to walk. I hope they reach you still smelling of summer.

He sent back sketches drawn on birch bark:

I drew this from the peak at dawn. The valley looks like a cradle from up here — all soft gold and mist. You can see your house clearly. It always feels like the warmest spot in the whole valley to me.

One evening she wrote:

Do you remember what it felt like to be one of us? To walk the paths without glowing? I find myself wondering who you were before you were… everything.

It took him two days to reply. When he did, his handwriting was shakier, as if written through trembling fingers:

I remember everything. My name was Kaelin. I ran messages just like you. I had calluses on my palms and mud on my boots. I was nobody special. Sometimes I miss that boy terribly. But don't be sorry for me. You — all of you — are worth every step.

Her next note made him smile so wide his cheeks ached:

Kaelin. It sounds like someone who laughs too loud and hums while they work. I like it very much. And for the record? You are still somebody special. You're just also very busy holding up the sky. Take care of yourself up there, Kaelin. We're all looking up.