Not everything is happy.
In one of his letters – scrawled by candlelight, by the drips of candlewax and the smears and smudges of ink further mauling his chickenscratch handwriting – he is frightened.
I want the dreams to go away. I thought all the beauty might help, and it does, but sometimes I dream of them. Father, Envy, Wrath, Pride…Especially Pride.
Count your shadows, Winry. Please, for me, count your shadows.
By the next letter he's back to writing about the sights and sounds and smells of the world he's exploring. But when it's dark outside and there's a cold finger on the base of her spine, she counts her shadows, and double-checks the locks.