I have two memories of my childhood before I ended up in the catacombs. They are fuzzy, and they don’t make sense together. I’ve never felt comfortable telling anyone about them—you are well aware of this, I know. And I’m grateful you gave me the space I needed. But I want to talk about them now. If only you were here with me! I will write them to you instead, with the hope that someday I’ll be able to hand you this letter and watch you read it. That’s an image I’m going to affix in my mind to help me through these uncertain days.

The first memory is of my parents and me. I was about four years old. We were together in a house with several other people, but my father only had eyes for my mother. He looked at her like her eyes were a portal to a heavenly place. He stroked her cheek and whispered, “I love you, pria.”

That is where the word originates in my mind. The love between my parents. When I saw the way Sky spoke about Alex, it reminded me of that kind of love. The kind that lasts a lifetime and beyond. I guess you know it means so much to me to use that word for you.

The second memory is jarringly different and has caused me much consternation ever since. It happens not much later than the first. The memory is of my mother. She’s angry. Screaming. At me, I thought, and I was devastated. She kept yelling “Go! Go!” and pointing to some strangers in blue uniforms. “Get out!” She was hysterical, and I kept running back to her, apologizing for whatever it was I’d done. Begging her to stop screaming and let me stay. But she shoved me at the soldiers. They scooped me up and took me away. That was the last time I saw her.

Rohan paused to press his fingers into the inner corners of his eyelids. A wave of emotion washed over him. Then he continued writing.