“It’s a letter,” she said. “To whom?” said Doul. He did not lean over and peer at the paper. Instead he caught her eyes. She sighed and leafed through the many pages of the letter, finding its beginning and holding it up to him so that he could read the first word. Dear, the letter said, and then there was a blank. A word-hole. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not to no one,” she said. “That would be sad, pathetic, to write a letter to no one. And it’s not a letter to someone dead, or anything so … sad. It’s the opposite of all that, the opposite. It’s not closed down like that: it opens up;
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