Jul. 17, 1911

Dear Madam,

We do not know each other, and it is long odds that we would ever become personally acquainted. Not the less, I hope you will pardon me for this sudden and unusual correspondence from a total stranger.

I assure you, I do not generally write to unknowns, and those few who know me well, know me as too much of a sensible and traditional man for these sort of adventures. And perhaps to a fault, a painfully modest fellow who wishes to bring no extra attention to himself.

Even so, I was done over by the brick that is my sense of duty to lose no more time in penning this letter to you. Plainly speaking, I have in my possession your belonging, and considered the possibility that you might want it back.

That is to say, by your 'belonging', I mean that I have kept your unposted letter with me for some time.

Sparing you the particulars, we were once very nearly in the same place at the same time aboard the RMS Cedric. I am one of the ship's complements. Our last day of the voyage, I went down to the mail room to post just a few lines to my sister to expect me to arrive safely in Liverpool. While waiting on the mail clerk to take my letter, it was by happenstance that I caught the honeyed scent of winter heather, not at all like that distinct smell of paper known only to mailrooms.

It stole my attention to a folded letter abandoned on the reception counter. With no envelope, postage, or any clues about its author or its intended, I was left only with daresays.

I reckon one of the mail clerks had a cob on, as he couldn't be bothered to tell me more about the owner of the letter. Only that it'd been a lady who had come in just before me, said nothing when asked if she needed any assistance, and fled from the room. In his outstanding wit, he imagined that you had clearly changed your mind about posting it and left it abandoned on the counter for one of them to throw away, as if it were his job. He grumbled something about being no one's drudge, and being fed up with being treated as such on this ship, and that I could tell the high lights that they should expect to sort the mail themselves if they presumed to make him take his meals with the steerage.

Had I been in a mind to listen, I might have.

Though, it was your fine handwriting that had fixed me more. Graceful, rounded, eloquent. Steady with full attentiveness to every detail. A swaying dance of letters with a clarity and honesty about every mark that left me unexpectedly reassured.

It reminded me instantly of the beloved I have lost. One so dear to me, still.

Leaving me guessing endlessly about the character of the author who had such a fine way with her pen.

Or perhaps it was your letter itself that I haven't stopped thinking of.

Forgive me, I know letters are intimate things, and I myself am a very private man. However, unfolding your letter was the only way I discovered your card tucked inside, and then your address in Liverpool.

And then, unintendedly, your words on the page.

"I know I'm doing better now. It's been three years since then, and I have accepted that cruel fate and moved on to find alternative meaning in my life. I feel so proud of myself that I've finally let the past go...Until out of nowhere...one little thing happens...one old letter tucked away in a drawer, one off-chance of catching that nauseating smell of jasmine flowers, one instance on this ship when I had stepped aside to allow a mother to walk by with her baby carriage...one very small reminder...and it's like I'm losing everything all over again...Had it not been for this ship, and the railing guarding me from the ocean on the other side of it, I'd think I was drowning."

Please have the utmost confidence in me that I did not intrude further on your privacy by reading more of your letter, save for that.

Though, since taking that small glance at it, I must confess, it has been three weeks now that I have dallied in returning your letter to you.

Partly owed to the precious few hours I have to spend on letter writing at sea, and partly to the idea that...well, to be fair, madam, your words have accidently become a comfort to me. Knowing that we the broken-hearted aren't alone, and that we belong to a large company who understand the yearning for memories of once upon a time, and how terrible it is that there will never be more.

I too find goodbye rather difficult, and it is no different when I imagined parting with your letter, which I have kept safely in my coat aboard the Cedric. It has kept me company all this time, and if I'm honest, bittersweet upon seeing it go. How rare it is for a man with a nature so quiet as mine to discover my own heart in another soul.

I very nearly almost stopped myself from writing that last part, afraid that you would write me off as some old batty. I can speak for myself as a man of many hats. Master mariner, widower, and father to four small children-though 'batty', alas, I have no luxury for now.

Even so, though batty this may be, I couldn't stop myself but to ask you just the same.

Would you allow me to write you again sometime?

I assure you, I would never be a demanding correspondent to you, and I shall never ask more from you, save to exchange letters together. And I would not expect that we do so very often either. Only when you desire to write me most.

Should it make you feel more at ease about writing me, we might even agree not to use our given names, or share any distinguishing details about the other that might compromise our reputation, should anyone question the suitability of us penning each other. I will never share more than you wish to hear from me.

All my hope is that we might both find some reprieve from our alike melancholy, and a distraction from everything around us in our exchanged letters together. I can only hope to be a small measure of comfort to you, just as your words have done so for me.

Please do not feel obligated to say yes and accept me as your pen mate.

I know this is still a very remarkable request to ask of a woman I know nothing about, and I know I'm quite possibly shooting into the dark. If you deem this unsuitable, please discard this letter straight away and take me at my word that I will never trouble you again after this.

Should you consider it, however, I would be very pleased to someday find another letter from you.

Sincerely yours,

H.