Her hands trembled as she held the letter, as she read the words written so finely on parchment so thick. She dropped it on the floor and looked up, broken and afraid.

"Ton…" Senna said.

Tenzin always sent them letters, one every few days, updating them on Korra's progress. As a father, he knew how alone they felt with Korra gone, so far from them. Korra wrote to them as well, and they cherished their daughter's words, but sometimes she lied or disguised her feelings. Tenzin, however, always told the truth.

Tonraq walked to his wife and he knew. He knew before Senna even said anything, but she continued anyway.

"She's missing," she said, tears filling her big, blue eyes—the same eyes that she had given their baby girl. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close because there wasn't anything else he could do.

It had been a long time since Korra had gone. It had hurt, but it was necessary, and they understood why Korra had to leave them. Most days, they were fine. Others, they felt a little more worried, missed her a little more than usual. But they could always anticipate her next letter, the fun they'd have sitting next to the fire, reading of her adventures and composing their reply. When they did this, it was like Korra was with them, like those rare weekends when she was able to leave the compound and visit. They'd eat seaweed noodles and laugh about Korra's stories of the guards and hug and love and be a family, like a normal family. Together.

Tonraq and Senna had these moments, and they clung to them. It's what made them okay with Korra being gone. It's what got them through. But now, she was more than just gone.

"Our baby girl's missing," she mumbled into his chest.

They clung to each other.

Alone.