"We should write," he says, and you look over to him, tearing your eyes from the darkened, clouded sky.

You don't ask who it is that you should be writing to - this you already know.

You don't do much in the way of moving either, and he leaps lightly up to join you as he always has.

You lie next to each other, the uneven grey shingles (everything is grey in this place, where it once used to be white) digging into your back much unlike the way pebbles in the camping grounds near home used to.

The silence of sleep lays its gentle hands on your shoulders, and then a star peers through the cover.

"There won't be anyone left to deliver it," you reply, and the truth in that statement bites.