He had kept their letters as he had kept everything else. They had always sent them. There was something very freeing about put quill to parchment and just letting go, just allowing your thoughts to pour out without fear or embarrassment; it was magic to convey exactly how they felt without stuttering or mixing up their meanings. Their letters, over the years, had become innumerable. Notes, lines, paragraphs, pages… they were cherished beyond doubt. When Remus became his worst, he would read Sirius' beautiful script, and he would briefly allow himself to believe it would be alright again, one day.