He set the cup down slowly, the porcelain gently tapping against the desk, before his hand moved to the drawer.
The motion was automatic. He had done it so many times that he could have found the folded paper inside with his eyes closed.
His fingers brushed the smooth edge, and he drew it out with the care of someone handling a memory.
The letter was waiting, as it always was, lying there in silence as though it had been part of the desk all along.
He unfolded it, though he didn't look at it right away.
His eyes stayed on the map pinned to the wall, the one lined with thin marks of troop movements, sealed gates, and circles drawn where too many whispers had gathered.
Only after a long moment did he lower his gaze to the paper in his hands.
There was no ink left on it. No strokes to trace with the eye.
