The letters came every month. Every month without fail for the past three years. The postmarks were from all over the world – China, Russia, America, Germany, Australia. Once it was England. I'd hoped that would mean a visit in person. I should have known better.

But no matter where the letters came from, the content suggested the writer was intimately acquainted with all the details of my life. The letters contained messages relating to work and relationships, observations, razor sharp insults (always directed at others, never me) and sometimes, to my surprise, support, advice and encouragement. Some of the messages were related to things that I hadn't mentioned to anyone. The writer seemed to know me better than I knew myself.

The letters were always focused on my life though, never giving any details about the writer's. Every letter was signed the same way.

Yours,

SH

One month the letter never came. I hoped that it had simply been delayed in the post somehow, even though in the past they had always arrived on the last day of the month. But there was no letter the next month. Or the next. I grieved as though my best friend had died.

6 months later a letter arrived.

My apologies for the delay – I was unavoidably detained.

I'm coming home.

See you soon?

Yours,

SH

At the bottom there was a phone number. I smiled.