I feel badly for not writing sooner. I despaired it would only hurt you. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how you felt. I still don’t. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.

But I remember Nalle. I’ve never forgotten anything of that summer with all of you dear Fiskares.

It isn’t easy to find joy right now, but whatever I can find, I share with you in your time of sadness.

Yours,

Astrid

“Bad news?” O’Hara said.

Kennet wasn’t sure why he handed the letter over. Maybe he needed O’Hara’s help figuring out how to feel about it. Perhaps some small part of Kennet was thawing out, enough to want to share something personal.

Or, most likely, he missed Hook badly and just fucking wanted him back. Hook, who’d always been around to read his life and letters.

“Who’s Astrid?” O’Hara asked.

“Long story short, she’s the love of my life,” Kennet said. “Or at least, my old life.”

“I figured.”

“You did?”

O’Hara shrugged and read the letter again, cigarette clamped in a corner of his mouth, his dark brows pulled into a single straight line. “This is sweet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t know your brother if I passed him on the street, but these little memories she writes make me see him. Make me feel like I know him.”

“She pinned down all his best qualities.”

“It’s obvious you two have a romantic history and she still cares about you, but—”

“You think so?”

“Oh, don’t be dumb. It’s there even if she doesn’t explicitly talk about it. And that’s the point: she keeps it about you and your grief. She just tries to comfort. It’s sweet.” He folded the paper and handed it back. “Hell, I’d love a letter like that.”

O’Hara never got mail, but he didn’t talk about who might’ve been writing him any more than he disclosed what kind of nightmares made him cry out at night.

Still, nobody had written to extend condolences about Jock. And that seemed a fucking shame.

“Dear O’Hara,” Kennet said. “I remember when the Quartermasters set up hot showers at Massul, and Jock started singing ‘O Sole Mio.’ I mean singing, like goddamn Caruso. He knocked us all on our asses.”

“Yeah, he had some set of pipes.”

“I remember his response to anyone farting was, ‘Captain Who?’”

O’Hara gave a tight little laugh. Kennet sensed he was inching too close to O’Hara’s pain, and he wrapped it up.

“These moments I will fold into memory. I remain, sir, your humble, obedient servant, K. E. Fiskare.”

O’Hara got up and left the cell, shaking his head. “You’re way too easy to like, Fish.”