Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing to you from the basement of Moreland Hall. Our office is nondescript. Our heater is overeager. Because we are underground, the light from our window enters at an angle, when it isn't obscured by stubborn Oregon clouds. We leave the door ajar when we write. I think our best work happens that way.

I've been thinking about postcards, as it happens. In October, my grandmother and I translated a pair of them, written by my grandfather in the 1970s, from Cantonese. The postcards were intended to assure his parents that his trip to Europe was underway without any major snags, and they were not particularly revelatory. A day in Frankfurt's Old Town. A trip to Goethe's home. Apple wine and sauerkraut.

Everything is good, he wrote. There's absolutely no need to worry.

I've asked the others to share a message with you, too.

Alice: Have a bad cough. Had a good day anyway. Hope you're breathing easy.

Amber: All I want is to write; depleted, one handed, burned out. What about you?

Robert: Good fortune and good vibes. Take care, everyone.

Thanks for reading. Wherever you are, leave the door ajar.

Julian