As much as I want to devour each and every word these little boxes contain, I can barely hold the phone steady, much less wrap my head around the fact he’s been writing to me. And every single one I click open, even the one at the very bottom—the first one, from two years ago—it signs off with some variation of that. Yours, still, storms and all. Storms and all, always. Yours always, storms and all.
