Nibbling absentmindedly on a biscuit and cupping his hands around a mug of tea, Patrick stared into the black outside as his fingers itched toward pen and paper. He had sent a letter nearly every week and written three for every one he sent. He knew, taking his cue from the number of letters received-a round nil-that he should not write another. Surely he had said too much. But part of him felt as if, possibly, he had not said enough.

Yes, he had apologized for crossing so many lines, for prying into her personal life. He had thanked her for her friendship over the last few months, and told her how much he respected her as a nurse and as an individual. He passed on Timothy's greetings and eager affection. At times, he had relayed medical information that excited him, devolving into what Tim would call his "Doctor Voice" and even once including a relevant clipping from The Lancet. But had he truly told her how he felt?

Dear Sister Bernadette. No harm writing, and no need to put it in an envelope when he was finished. He'd drained his tea and might as well do something with his idle fingers that didn't involve another biscuit.

Dear Sister Bernadette,

I hope this letter finds you even stronger and in better health and spirits than the last. I have heard from the nurses at Nonnatus that your case has progressed more quickly than most, thanks to early diagnosis. I find myself once again grateful to you for your work in bringing the screening van to Poplar.

Christmas is fast approaching, and the spirits in Poplar are palpably high. The buzz of the holidays seems to start earlier each year. Tim has been needling me about getting a silver tree this Christmas, and expressed his concern that you might not be home to Poplar in time for the celebrations; he says you make the best paper snowflakes of anyone at Nonnatus.

The holidays have me thinking more deeply than usual about what is important to me. I don't know if my letters have reached you-if they've been overly forward, or left you uncertain as to my feelings. In any case, in the spirit of honesty and goodwill, I thought I should be plain.

I have never believed in the idea of soulmates, and am, as you know, a firm believer in free will. But if there is such a thing as a soul, I hope you will not be bothered by the confession that I feel, if it's possible, that mine lies in very close proximity to yours. I'm not sure how to explain it, except to say that when I see you smile, when I see you're happy, I am happy. When you're troubled, I feel it, too. I feel as though I have known you as long as I can remember, and that there are things I want to tell you-though I feel as if you will know the feelings before I speak them.

I hope my letters have not pushed you away. I want nothing more than your friendship, if you'll still allow it. Anything further would be more than I could dream of. If you will give me an indication your soul is at peace, mine will also be so.

Your friend,
Patrick

He sat quietly for a long while after the ink had dried. After minutes had passed, he shut off the lamp on the desk. He'd shelve that letter with the others left unsent.

When he woke up the next morning to the smell of Tim burning toast, he had a crick in his neck and dryness in his mouth.

"Dad, I have a card to send to Sister Bernadette. Can I have money for a stamp? Can I take it to the post office on my way to school? Please?"

"Hold on," Patrick rubbed at his face. "If you stop at the post office you're going to be late." His eyes searched the room for the watch he'd removed last night.

"No I'm not, if I leave now I'll get there in plenty of time." Tim shoved a large corner of toast into his mouth. "And it's the last day before half-term, so it'll just be review and I already know it all, anyway."

Patrick sighed. Another day he'd speak to his son about how being a know-it-all wasn't always considered a good thing, but today, he simply tossed Tim a handkerchief and told him to wipe the jam from his cheeks.

"There's some change in my jacket pocket."

It was only that evening, when he'd finally returned from clinic, and rounds, and retrieving Tim from cub scouts, and they'd eaten their regular Thursday night fish supper, when Patrick settled down at his desk to finish up his paperwork for the morning, that he noticed something was missing. Patrick shuffled through the papers on his admittedly untidy desk with increasing panic, opening drawers and finally crouching on all fours to peer underneath the desk, until Tim looked up from his library book.

"Have you lost something, Dad?"

"Just-" How to explain to his ten-year-old son that what he was worried about was a love letter to a nun that he'd written in an overtired confession of emotion and would be mortified if anyone discovered? "A letter."

"To Sister Bernadette?"

Patrick turned so sharply his head thwacked against the underside of the desk.

"Ouch. That doesn't sound good; you should check for concussion. Are you dizzy?"

He touched his head gingerly. "No, thanks, Tim."

"And I put your letter in with my card, this morning. So you don't have to look for it down there anymore."

"You what?" Patrick struggled to stand.

"Do you feel like you might cry, dad? I read in The Lancet that concussions can make you feel like crying."

"No, no-" Patrick winced. "Did you say you posted my letter?"

"I thought since I was sending her something anyway-was that bad?"

"I just, well," he sighed. "I had decided I wasn't going to send it after all."

"Why not?"

"Well, sometimes, er," Patrick groaned, easing himself creakily into a chair. "Sometimes it helps just to write down how you feel."

"How do you feel?" Tim closed his book and stepped closer to his father, raising three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Like I could use a drink," he grumbled. "And Tim, I don't have a concussion."

"How many fingers, dad!"

"Three." Patrick bustled to the kitchen and pulled out a bag of frozen veg to hold against his forehead as his mind raced.

If Tim had posted the letter, he had maybe two, three days until she received it, and if she actually read the thing-more likely, he cursed, as it was sent in an envelope from Timothy-and replied, he'd hear back… possibly in a week. A week of overthinking and self-doubt compared to the last few months was nothing. And also agony.

"Dad?"

Patrick sighed. He must look a sad sight, even to Tim, with thawing pea juice melting down his forehead in the middle of a dark kitchen.

"Yes, son?"

"I'm really sorry for posting your letter without asking." The boy's eyes were wide, and his arms fidgeted, twisting behind his back.

"It's okay, Tim. I'll figure out… something."

"Well, see, I was thinking-well, I ran into Nurse Trixie on my way to the post office this morning, and-" Tim hesitated, calculating, "well, I was late, like you said I would be, and she said she was going there anyway, later today or tomorrow."

Patrick's breath caught, his heart thumping.

"So I gave it to her with the money to post. She might not've…." He trailed off.

Patrick dropped the peas into the sink and picked up his keys from the kitchen table with one clumsy motion.

"Right. I'll be-right back-"

"Can I come?" Tim looked hopeful, and Patrick stooped to pull him into bear hug. Something he didn't do often enough, he thought.

"No. Bed."

It was Nurse Noakes who answered the door when Patrick arrived.

"Oh, Doctor Turner, jolly fine evening, isn't it? Do come in, mind the bump-sorry-even larger than usual-I knocked over that umbrella stand with the poor old bean the other day when I wasn't paying attention… do come in, I just put the kettle on…"