Dear Edward,
I find this particular letter is much harder to write than normal. Of course, I am used to penning my words without thinking you will read them. Yet it is more difficult when the reason is not merely that I won't send them.
You're missing. I don't have to tell you that; I don't have to tell you that you're a wanted man, either. That last bit does give me hope—if you were dead, there would be no point in searching for you. Yet it disquiets me to not know at least vaguely where you are, or what condition you find yourself in. To be brief, I am worried for you, Edward.
I am quite vexed by that fact. Of course, it is only natural for a superior officer of my caliber to have concern for his team. Yet with everyone else I am having an easier time accepting that they can handle themselves. While I know the same is true for you, it doesn't ease my…sorrows? That is hardly the word to use, and yet it most accurately describes what I feel. I believe you are alive, and still I am plagued with this resounding sadness at the loss of contact.
Why? The question echoes around my head, bur repetition does naught to get me closer to an answer. You're just some punk kid, so why do I spend so much time thinking of you?
I am not used to being unable to find an answer. When I need information, I hunt it down. But I hesitate to confide these emotions in anyone else. I cannot use my resources.
I cannot explain what it is about you, Edward. Of course you would defy logic.
Please be safe.
Yours,
Roy
