The teacher snatches back the envelope and leaps back onto the platform as lightly as a deer.

“This letter has come to me from Paris, the capital of France. The most beautiful, marvelous city in the world. Just imagine. It has traveled more than five thousand miles to Mont-Laurier.”

He reads aloud and comments at the same time.

Dear brother!

I am presently in Paris (the capital of France) sitting on the terrace of a café (that’s an outdoor restaurant) on St. Michel in the Latin Quarter (that’s where all the artists live). The Seine runs alongside (that’s the famous river that runs through the middle of Paris) and just a bit farther I can see the tower of Notre Dame (that’s the big stone cathedral). I am writing you while I sip my espresso (that’s a small cup of very strong coffee).

I have good news. I have sent the manuscript for my novel to a publishing house and it has been accepted. I am in the City of Light now to sign the contract and enjoy life. I will call you when I return.

Your big brother,
Paul

Monsieur Thibeault’s voice is thick with emotion.

“This is a letter from my dear older brother. When you think about it, it’s almost like magic. This little sheet of paper, light as a feather, has crossed the ocean full of words just for me — words that connect me with the person who sent them.”

Then he says something that goes straight to my heart.

“Often, in life, when we are upset or troubled, when we don’t know what to think or who to talk to, the simple act of taking a piece of paper and a pencil and writing can do us enormous good. Writing things down lets us talk to ourselves, helps us understand who we are, where we come from and what we are heading for…”

On the way home from school, I think about what Monsieur Thibeault said. What if I write a letter to Pinamen? It would be as if I was talking to her.

The more I think about it, the more this idea takes hold. I spend a long time leaning on the railing of the bridge, watching the water below.

What if I can’t do it? And I don’t have her address…

But the ministry has an address. It’s on the envelope that Mona receives every month. The ministry surely knows where Pinamen Petitquay is. It could find her in its files.

I tell no one about my plan. In my head I find the perfect words and build them into sentences. I rewrite them a hundred times. I want my words to say exactly what I feel.

Finally, one night after dinner, I get out my schoolbooks, my notebooks, my pencils, my eraser. I spread everything out in front of me on the kitchen table.