Dear Beckett,
I know you said you would call, but I hear you're recovering at your father's cabin? That's great, really great. I imagine it's nice and peaceful there.
The writer in me pictures a porch overlooking a small lake-you're sitting on a bench swing—you can probably watch the sun rise or set from there. It's hot, but nothing you can't take. You get small bursts of relief from the stray breeze off the lake. It's quiet—might be too quiet sometimes—you can hear your thoughts, but you're surrounded by nature, and it's so different from the overwhelming sounds of the city. It's something that lulls you…the crickets chirping (which drones after a while), maybe a toad croaking by the lake, and distant songs of birds being carried through the patches of trees.
And I just got kicked out of my day dream by the sound of a taxi horn. Nothing's changed too much here (as you can tell). I'm in and out of the precinct, working a case with the boys. I told Ryan I wouldn't tell you this, but I've caught him staring longingly at your chair (I think he might miss you).
The ruggedly handsome faux doctor in me says rest up. Make sure you rotate ice cream flavors, watch the most ridiculous cartoons, and let yourself enjoy the cheesy daytime soaps—doctors orders.
Get well, Kate. You've got this.
-Castle
A/N: Thanks for reading!