Do you remember those stories you told me, about the buildings with black coal dust ground into the cracks? You said the same coal dust found its way into the lines of people's faces.

That will never happen to you now. Nor will you risk the crushing darkness below ground and keep your ears pricked for the little yellow bird's song.

Instead, you'll wake at night and your heart will race until you remember where you are.

If it were up to me, I would have given you coal dust rather than blood under your nails.


A friend.