"The odd thing about this form of communication is that you're more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings."

-You've Got Mail

The next morning, while grabbing something to eat in his mom's kitchen, Clark checked his email. Sure enough, there was one letter in his new inbox. He smiled to himself and quickly selected it, then sat down at the kitchen table and began to read.

Clark,

I'll admit, I spent five minutes typing and re-typing "Dear Clark" or "To Clark" or "Dear Mr. Kent" over and over again. It all felt too awkward. I don't want you to feel like I'm a creeper, all right? No "Dear Anything" until I know you better.

Now that I've made such a professional-sounding statement, and after assuring you I don't want to come off as a creep, I herewith demand that you tell me all about yourself. Haha. And I don't mean I want you to repeat everything you've already told me (or that I already figured out). I want to know about you, your interests, your childhood, your travels, your convictions.

I want you to know more about Smallville and your parents-your dad, especially, and what your mother is really like under that steely demeanor of hers. Right now she's a distant, stern Regina of the Midwest that I dare not approach for fear of being squashed-and yet that very thing makes me believe you take after her. You can have a lordly look about you the same way she can make you feel like a piddly commoner in the presence of a queen-but you have a gentle side. Surely she does as well. Tell me she does, otherwise I'll be scared of her forever.

I just realized you know precious little about my own history. Here's a brief overview. I was an army brat. My father was a general. I was born in South Korea and didn't come to the States until I was three years old. My parents divorced when I was eleven. My mom got custody of me and I lived with her here in Metropolis until I went off to college.

I got my degree in journalism and became an intern for the Daily Planet. My dad and Perry White were acquaintances, so that's how I ended up there. After my dad died Perry became something of a father-figure, though I'll admit we've had our moments. It's what comes of putting two muleheaded people together.

A little list of questions for you:

Do you read? If so, what books do you like?

Your opinion on movies?

Music?

Coffee or tea?

Animals?

Signing off for now,

L.L.

Clark rubbed his chin and suddenly realized he'd read through the whole letter smiling. Her honesty and good humor were undeniably endearing. He glanced at the clock. He'd slipped into a routine of arriving in Metropolis well before the sun came up. If he allowed himself half an hour to write Lois back, he could still be there early enough to meet the work crews returning to the devastated areas for another day's work.

Clark sat back, careful not to lean the chair back too far-he'd been known to snap a few of his mother's chairs into matchwood-and poised his thumbs over the screen of his phone. He began to type-slowly at first, and then with more confidence.

Lois,

That's fine: no "dear" nonsense. I'd rather this be a relaxed correspondence anyway, and "dear Clark" or "dear Lois" makes it sound more formal, at least in my opinion. Thank you for your letter. It cheered me up after yesterday, which seemed grim and sad even though we made good progress-both here and in Metropolis.

I don't wear my suit here. I don't want to make people I've known all my life anymore nervous around me than they already were. But the odd thing is, they don't seem afraid of me anymore. My mom believes they all know I'm Kal-El and I think she's right. Now that they know who I am and that I'm not going to hurt them, they're much more comfortable around me. Not until the past couple of weeks did I ever feel like I really belonged in Smallville. It's nice to call it "home" and really mean it.

I had to smile at your description of Mom. She's not as steely as you think. That's all part of her guard. She had shielded me for so long, the idea of anyone else knowing my secret made her defensive. She feels bad about giving you the cold shoulder this summer. I think the two of you would be great friends if you ever ran into each other again-which is something I mean to arrange.

You know a little about my father already. He was quieter than Mom, loved his books, loved his land. I knew he loved me, even if he wasn't as openly affectionate as Mom. I remember when he first told me how they found me, he hugged me tight. I was amazed-and grateful. I needed that physical sign of affection.

Thank you for sharing some of your own history with me. It sounds like we both went through some hard times as children. And we've both lost our fathers. I'm sorry to hear that. But what doesn't break you makes you stronger, or so Dad used to tell me, and it sounds like we've both adapted and overcome.

Yes, I read. As a kid, I lived and breathed books. I had few friends at school (though I wanted them) so I made friends with fictional characters and historical heroes. I'll read pretty much anything I can get my hands on. As far as movies go . . . I'd rather read, to be honest. But I do like some of those Pixar movies. You know what I'm talking about? I didn't care how old I was, I enjoyed those.

Music. You've got me stumped there because I've never listened to much music except whatever my parents were listening to on the radio, or what I heard in church. I prefer coffee to tea, though the caffeine makes me edgy. And I love animals. The only animals that never seem to take to me are cats. I'm a dog magnet.

Now I expect your own opinions on the questions you asked.

Your friend,

Clark

Lois dared not check her new inbox all day. She was afraid of disappointment-but afraid, too, that he had written her back and she wouldn't be able to reply until after work. Then she'd be eaten up with suspense and be good for nothing.

It didn't really matter though, whether or not she refrained from checking; she was still distracted. Perry walked past her cubicle and frowned at her.

"Got your head in the clouds, Lane?" he asked, disapproving.

"No, just tired," Lois said, snapping to attention and returning to the outline of tomorrow's column.

When she got home, she threw her purse and laptop onto her sofa and pulled out her phone. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she logged into the new inbox. When she saw Clark's letter, she sucked in her breath and read it fast, then again more slowly.

"Keep it together, Lois," she whispered to herself, opening her laptop. "Don't be giddy, be cool. Don't turn him off or you might lose him forever. For heaven's sake, I think I've gone completely lovesick."

Then she laughed at herself, because it was the first time she'd ever said that about herself. By the time she'd settled on the sofa with her laptop, she was much calmer and felt she could write an honest, friendly, but subdued reply.

Clark,

I don't judge you for liking Pixar movies. When Monsters, Inc. came out I went to the theater all by myself (I was in my first year of college) and laughed and cried like it was a soul-gripping drama. Maybe it was. I'm glad to hear you read, too, though I already guessed it. You talk like a man who's well-read. When my parents were going through the divorce, I buried myself in books. My world was collapsing over my head. Immersing myself in Middle Earth and Narnia was the only way I knew to protect myself.

Please tell your mother I still feel bad about barging into her life last summer. If I'd known what a painful thing it was for her, I would've toned down my over-eager, insensitive presentation (though I'm afraid I can't promise I would've smothered my curiosity about you). I'm afraid I'm known for my occasional tactlessness. I don't like small talk and I despise false pretenses, but in my attempt to combat it my own honesty turns brutal. I'd love to meet your mother again under more relaxed circumstances.

Your father reminds me of my own. Quiet, thoughtful, but loving. I have fond memories of Dad. He told me once, after he and Mom divorced, that he wished he could go back and fix so many of the problems that led to their split. I don't think all the problems were on his end, though, and that's what's so difficult for me to deal with today. My mother is a domineering woman and it's always been either her way or the highway.

Before I close, about the other three questions. I live on coffee and music. If you ever hear that writers have the uncanny ability to turn caffeine into words-well, it's 100% true. I drink too much coffee for my own good. My mother is a music-lover so I've grown up listening to everything from classical to jazz to soundtracks to country western.

Oh, and I love cats.

P.S. Ignore or laugh off whatever you hear about me and Glen Woodburn. I may have to give a response to that article he wrote about us, and I may give the impression that I don't care two cents about you. It's not true, but I have to throw them off the scent.

The letter-writing gave Lois something to look forward to. They were a secret pleasure, a bit of lightheartedness in a dark, gloomy Metropolis.

Work was depressing; all the news revolved around the city's recovery and the horrifying death toll. A well-known investor friend of her mother's, William Leonard, was heading an investigation of Zod's final ship, or rather, the ruins of it. The investigation made Lois nervous. If they discovered anything about Krypton that endangered Clark's secret . . .

If Clark was worried about the investigation, his letters never showed it. They were too full of his own recovery work and his history. Lois felt like she was gathering notes for a novel. Clark Kent's life was certainly worthy of an adventure story, in her opinion.

It was surreal to stop by one of his work sites now, to see him in his Kryptonian suit and cape and think, This is the man I'm writing to almost every night. He was a mystery-a kind one, thank goodness-and she was unlocking his secrets, peeling back the layers of his character and history one by one.

At the same time she was opening up to him, letting him in on her own secrets. For the first time, there was someone who really cared about her enough to encourage her, to treat her like she was something valuable and not just an employee or a troublesome child. Lois found herself asking for his advice in dealing with her mother or with irritating colleagues. She trusted him, knew he was clear-headed, smart, and strangely wise. Jonathan and Martha Kent had taught him well.

One chilly November evening, she received an email that made her heart jump in her throat.

Don't write anything specific about where I am or what I'm doing. I'm worried Uncle Sam is watching me. Delete this email as soon as you get it.

She obeyed. She'd gotten into a habit of printing his emails and then deleting them anyway, but she didn't even bother printing this one. Quickly she grabbed her phone off her kitchen counter and texted him.

Deleted. Should we stop writing?

His response came immediately. Couldn't do that now, I depend on your letters too much. Just be careful what you say.

Lois thought a moment. OK. Think we should make a code for our letters?

Sure, he texted back. But you make it up. You're clever.

Amused, Lois leaned against the counter and typed a coy response. Well, thank you, I'm flattered. Kansas = Pumpkin Spice Latté? (I'm having a craving, can you tell?)

His response made her gasp. That just made me laugh out loud. Scared my mom to death.

Wait-she'd made him laugh and hadn't been there to hear it?

If I made you laugh, my day is made, she wrote. Let me hear it some time!

Say something funny like that next time we get to see each other face-to-face, then, he replied.

By Christmas, Metropolis had won. It was still fragile, but the people had shown a grim defiance, as if they were determined not to let the ghost of Zod's ambitions triumph over them.

Smallville was starting to look like its old, homey self again, too. Its people worked with a will, wanting their little town looking halfway decent before the blizzards set in. The only thing that disturbed Clark was the surveillance drone he'd glimpsed, with his ultra-sharp vision, flying over the Midwest skies. He knew he'd eluded it every morning on his way to Metropolis, but it still made him nervous.

One chilly morning just after the holiday he went to work cutting fresh slabs of wood with his dad's old table saw. It was the first step towards repairing Martha's battered porch. The roof, at least, was no longer tarped. Martha was in town, working at the newly-opened Sears just as she'd done ever since Jonathan Kent's death. Clark intended to have the work done by the time she got home.

While he worked, he thought of Lois' most recent letter, an amusing account of her mother's glitzy Christmas party. He could imagine the no-nonsense Lois, armed with her biting sarcasm, in the midst of such overblown finery and rather liked the picture. The sound of a truck pulling into the driveway startled him, however; he turned and saw Pete Ross getting out of the truck and

coming towards him.

"Pete, how's it going?" Clark called.

"Pretty good, pretty good." Pete stepped onto the porch and looked askance at the table saw. "You wearing safety goggles or something?"

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, scrambling for an answer. "Guess I ought to, huh?"

Pete looked at him oddly but didn't pursue the subject. "Look, I was driving by on my way to my parents' house and wanted to ask you if you'd help us frame up the Kelseys' new barn tomorrow morning, before the snowstorm hits. They're looking for stronger men than, say, me. I thought of you."

Clark nodded. "I'll be there if you do me a favor-hold onto this stud while I cut it in half."

Pete was more than willing; sheepishly, Clark threw him a pair of safety glasses out of the toolbox and put on a pair himself. The saw whined and hissed; when it fell silent Clark had two solid studs in his possession. He picked them up and tossed them, without thinking about it, onto a pile of identical studs as lightly as if they were matches.

"That's the last of 'em," he said, wiping his hands on his blue jeans. "I'll start work tomorrow afternoon if it doesn't snow. The forecast isn't promising."

He glanced up at the overcast sky, then at his friend. Pete was staring at him, one eyebrow quirked, his lips pursed skeptically.

"What?" Clark asked, puzzled.

Pete slammed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. "Look, I'm going to ask you a question and I want a straight answer."

Clark picked up the toolbox to reorganize it. "I'll give it if I can."

"Are you Superman?"

Clark gave a start, his head jerking around. Pete met his gaze steadily.

"What makes you ask that question?" Clark asked with forced calm.

"The school bus," Pete said quietly.

Clark looked away. "That was years ago, Pete."

"All right, then, let's talk about something a bit more recent. Four weeks ago now-some crazy lady from outer space slams Superman into my store. He gets up not three feet from where I'm standing, turns around, and looks me in the eye. And I said to myself, 'Gosh, if that doesn't look like Clark Kent.' "

"Looks can be deceiving," Clark said coolly.

"Well, you're looking at me the same way you did then," Pete retorted, folding his arms over his chest, "and I don't think I'm deceived."

A year ago, this conversation would've sent Clark's heart pounding and his adrenline levels soaring. For some reason, he didn't feel that old, familiar panic at all. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and knew it was time-at least where Pete was concerned-to tell the truth.

"Okay. You got me."

Pete blinked. "Then you really are-?"

"Superman," Clark said, not even trying to hide his disgust at the name. "I'd rather be called Kal-El but nobody seems to like that."

Now that it came to it-now that he owned the secret instead of simply suspecting it-Pete was flabbergasted. "So you're not from this world after all."

"Nope," Clark said, slamming the toolbox shut. It was heavy, but as he and Pete walked to the barn he swung it as freely as if it were a light basket. "I came here as a baby-a week or two old, Mom guessed by the looks of me-because my real parents wanted to save me from our decaying planet. They sent me to Earth and I crash-landed here."

"And Jonathan and Martha adopted you," Pete finished in an awed voice. "Raised you like you were an average American kid . . ."

"Well, if you can call a boy who can see through walls and skeletons 'an average American kid,' " Clark said wryly.

Pete frowned. "You do realize you saved the planet."

Clark sighed. "I do. But it's not a feather in my cap. People died. You don't realize it because only ten people died here in Smallvile-but they've got a death toll of close to two thousand in Metropolis. And it all could've been avoided if I'd moved faster-"

"Dude," Pete interrupted. He had always called Clark that when he was about to make a point. "Dude, you sounded like you were booking it to me. And so far I haven't heard anyone blaming you except for a few snotty politicians."

"Yeah, I hear there are a few businessmen and intellectuals in Metropolis who don't like me."

"The people love you," Pete said hotly. "Just punch the intellectuals' lungs out."

Clark rolled his eyes. "Like that would help matters. No, Pete, my parents-"

"The Kents, or the real ones?"

Clark pressed his lips firmly together. "The Kents are my real parents. They're the ones who loved me and raised me."

"Yeah, but-"

"My biological father told me I was as much a child of Earth as of-of that other place," Clark said, waving his hand vaguely at the cloudy sky. He didn't like to say the word Krypton, not yet. "And he told me to side with the people here, not my countrymen. This is my home, Pete-and Jonathan and Martha Kent are my parents. What I was going to say was, they taught me to use my gifts wisely."

"You mean your strength?"

Clark sighed, nodded. "My strength . . . my eyes . . . I can see through things, Pete. I could look right inside you right now and see what you had for lunch."

"Don't!" Pete said, startled.

Clark smiled. "Don't worry, I won't. I hate that part of it, actually . . . it's kind of gross. But I've been able to save a life even with that." He remembered Lois gasping for breath in the Fortress of Solitude and the sight of the gushing bleed in her abdomen.

"So you're not going to punch anyone's lungs out, I take it," Pete teased.

"No. In fact, I'm going to prove to the world-even if it takes the rest of my life-that I'm not like the people who were responsible for the destruction last month." Clark gritted his teeth. "Even if it takes the rest of my life, I'll prove it."

Pete's gaze scanned Clark long and hard. "I reckon you will. And I won't tell your story, I swear. Not even to the wife."

Clark smiled. "Thanks, Pete. I appreciate it."

Only after Pete left did Clark realize the magnitude of what he'd done. For the first time, he'd told someone about himself, and without terror or shame. The only other person who knew was Lois, and she'd figured out he was an alien long before he ever confided in her. Pete was the first person he'd actually told.

Clark got back to work, smiling to himself. This would be an interesting story to write to Lois.

Responding real quick to a common point in the most recent reviews: yes, my Lois is a few years younger than Clark, mainly because, when I first saw the movie, I got the impression she was either his age or a little younger. This idea, however, led to a rather unfortunate assumption that Henry Cavill and Amy Adams were close to the same age as well-NOT! When I found out she's about 10 years older than him I walked around in shell-shock for hours. Moral of the story: don't make hasty conclusions about actors' ages ;)