The Space Between Letters

To the Alps

March 12, 1947

Dear Ana,

I don't know if you'll ever read these words, but it feels like the only way I can reach you right now. The Alps seem so far away, though I imagine you there, somewhere among the snow and the silence, searching for answers that I fear we may never fully understand.

I keep thinking about that train. I can still see it in my mind-the way it hurtled through the mountains, the wind whipping through the trees, and then... the fall. Bucky. I wasn't there, and yet I feel as if I failed him, that somehow my absence mattered. You went to find closure for him, and I hope-God, I hope-you found something, some peace amidst the ruins of what happened.

I don't write like this often, Ana. The war taught me to hold my emotions close, like a shield. But there are things a shield can't hide. I miss the way you carried yourself, calm and certain, even when the world was turning upside down. I miss the quiet strength you gave to all of us when we were trembling inside.

The office is quieter now. Not a day goes by that I don't hear the echo of your voice in the hallways. I'm not sure if you wanted to leave or if the Alps called you with more than just closure. Maybe you needed to see him, to see him gone in your own way. I can understand that. I do.

If these words reach you-if somehow they do-know that you are not alone. Not in thought, not in heart. I think of you often, Ana, and I hope that whatever path you walk, it is one where the ghosts of the past don't weigh so heavily.

Peggy