The letter was waiting for Beth on Monday when she got back from her hike. She'd meant to go the day after her visit, the Sunday, but when she'd woken up she'd felt inspiration in her fingertips and had gone to the piano instead. Out came this haunting, instrumental piece, full of longing and strange feelings she couldn't describe. It was nothing like she'd ever written before.

She wiped sweat from her top lip with the back of her hand and tore open Daryl's letter. A minute later she put it down again, feeling a swirling vortex of shock, disappointment and confusion.

Daryl was a killer?

It didn't make any sense. She'd looked into his eyes and seen a good man. Her mind raced over the possibilities. The charge was voluntary manslaughter, so perhaps that meant it had been a hunting or car accident. Deadly accidents happened all the time and they were terrible, unpredictable and tragic events that were often nobody's fault, but people were sent to prison for them just the same.

Beth raced upstairs to her laptop, booted it up and typed 'voluntary manslaughter' into a search engine. The definition that she read was worse than the shock of reading his letter:

Voluntary manslaughter is the killing of a human being in which the offender had no prior intent to kill and acted during "the heat of passion", under circumstances that would cause a reasonable person to become emotionally or mentally disturbed.

It hadn't been an accident. Something had provoked Daryl and he'd killed his own father. It wasn't murder, though. It wasn't a calculated killing in cold blood. That was something. But …

Did Daryl have a temper? Could he turn violent at a moment's notice? That didn't sit right with the man she was beginning to know, and the last part of the definition spoke against it too: "circumstances that would cause a reasonable person to become emotionally or mentally disturbed."

What had happened that had driven Daryl to kill his own father?

Every other time Beth had received a letter from Daryl she'd gone straight to her desk and written one back, excited to talk to him. But this time she felt hollow and worn out.

Beth left his letter on her desk and went to take a shower. It wasn't until later that night that she was able to take up paper and pen. She wanted to write a letter that captured the beauty of the woods. To transport him back there.

.

June 30

Dear Daryl,

When I woke up this morning I saw that it was going to be a perfect summer's day. It was early and the sun hadn't risen behind the trees yet and the woods were dark against the pale yellow sky.

I got my kit together last night so I could set off straight away: rucksack, two bottles of water, crackers, dried fruit and nuts, the map I showed you and compass. I took a cheese sandwich from the fridge and an apple from the bowl in the kitchen as well.

I don't own any hiking boots but I have a good pair of runners that are well broken in, and I put on some shorts and a white cotton shirt. I thought it was going to be a hot day – and it was – so I didn't want to dress too heavily.

The sun was just peeking over the trees when I left the house and headed for the woods. They're about two miles over the fields from where I live. My runners were wet with dew by the time I crossed the first field. There were so many flocks of small birds whirring from tree to tree and skimming over the long grass. In the fields daddy's using for feed the hay is standing so high already and beginning to turn golden brown. Have you ever stood by a field of hay on a breezy day? The way the wind ripples through it makes it move like water. On a really windy day the hay swells in waves that make me think of a herd of galloping horses.

The breeze this morning was cool but as soon as I stepped into the woods it was very still and humid. I suppose it's all the damp leaf litter and the trapped air. I was soon sweating like crazy and halfway through my first bottle of water.

Within the hour I'd found one of the trails you'd mentioned and I followed it, not really with a destination in mind. I am in no way an orienteer but I know that the woods are north-east of my house, so I thought that if I got lost I would just walk south-west until I found my way to it or the main road!

I didn't think much as I walked, just listened to the chirp of the crickets and enjoyed the feel of my feet on the trail. That was a real nice sensation, like a mediation, but I didn't have to remind myself to empty my mind like I've had to the times I've actually tried meditation. It just emptied naturally and I was in what those corny self-help people like to call 'the moment'.

The trail started heading downhill around midday and my feet went with it. And you know what? I found that stream you talked about. I sat on a rock and dangled my bare feet in the cold water and ate my sandwich. I hadn't seen a soul all day except the birds and a few squirrels, and I was sitting there thinking about how still and peaceful it was when two deer came down to the water about twenty feet from me and started drinking. Must have been a doe and her faun. The little thing was all legs and ears and awkwardness, but his mama was just the daintiest thing I've ever seen. I think they saw me because they only stayed for a few minutes.

I headed back after that, thinking I'd need my compass but I thought seeing as I had all afternoon I'd try using my instincts. I came out of the woods onto our land not far from where I'd entered them. You would have been so proud of me.

That last stretch across the open fields with the sun beating down on me was the hardest part. I was red in the face and out of breath by the time I reached the house, and I drank two tall glasses of iced lemonade and then flopped down in a wicker chair on the porch for half an hour to recover.

I can sure see why you'd spend weeks living in those woods. They are beautiful, and they're so huge. I feel like I only saw a tiny part of them and I kinda didn't want to come home.

Your friend,

Beth

.

Beth stared at the letter a long time when she'd finished it. It was just what she'd wanted to say, but it was still lacking. She hadn't mentioned what he'd told her about his sentence, but she didn't know what to put. If she expressed sympathy with his jail term it would sound so inadequate, and every time she thought about the years that stretched ahead of him she felt a lump in her throat.

Ten years. It was an almost incomprehensible amount of time.

…

Beth opened the letterbox with a pounding heart, but she was disappointed again: nothing from Daryl. It had been a week and there'd been no reply to her letter, and every day was worse than the last.

She walked back up to the house slowly with a gnawing feeling in her belly. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd hurt him with her last letter by not talking about his sentence. He'd opened up to her and she'd disregarded it. At least, that must be how it felt to him. Barely an hour went by that she didn't think about him trapped in there.

When she got inside she went straight to her desk.

.

July 7

Daryl,

I didn't say anything about your sentence in my last letter and I think you're hurt that I ignored it. I'm sorry. I didn't know what to say but I have been thinking about it constantly and my heart hurts for you.

I know that what you've done doesn't define you. When I looked into your eyes I saw a gentle man. A good man. Whatever events occurred that led to your father's death I know that you weren't to blame. Maybe one day you'll tell me about it but please know that this doesn't change the way I feel about you. You've been nothing but kind to me.

Here is a pressed Cherokee rose that I found in the woods. I wanted to wait another week or so till it was properly dried out to send it but I couldn't wait any longer. It's strong enough to survive.

Yours,

Beth

…

Daryl noticed the signature with a lurch. Beth had been playing around with her sign-offs throughout her letters, ending them with 'Yours sincerely' and 'Your friend', or just 'Beth'. This was the first time she'd said just 'Yours'.

His?

He tucked the flower and the letter back into their envelope and headed for his cell. He had a new cell-mate. The old one had just disappeared one day, probably shipped off to another prison. They did that without warning sometimes. The new guy was tall and dark with strong features, and was the real stoic type. Suited Daryl just fine not to have a lot of chatter. Blake, he thought the man's name was.

Blake was lying on the top bunk when Daryl came into the cell, his hands folded over his stomach, just staring at the ceiling. Must have a lot on his mind.

He got his pen and paper and sat in his own bunk beneath Blake.

.

July 9

Beth,

The rose is real pretty, and I've put it inside one of my books to keep it safe. I must have read your letter about the woods ten times every day since you sent it and it lives in my pocket.

You say I've been kind to you but by my reckoning it's the other way round.

Daryl

…

What do you think of the way things are developing between Beth and Daryl? What would you have said to him if you got that letter about his conviction and sentence? Also, have you worked out who Daryl's new cell-mate is? ;) Did you know straight away or did you have to look him up?