The Hut, after Ava left
Handwritten letter on heavy, cream-colored paper, sealed in a plain envelope

Ava,

I don’t know why I write this. Perhaps because words, when set to paper, force a certain honesty that speech allows us to evade. Or perhaps because, in a world where so much dissolves into the digital ether, I still believe that ink has weight, that permanence has meaning.

You asked me—half a challenge, half a joke—if I had any illusions left. If I thought Pegged could be more than just an idea, more than a system, more than a machine running in the background of human transactions. I dismissed the question at the time, because I dismiss most things that touch too close to hope. But if I were honest, if I were the kind of man who allowed himself the luxury of that kind of honesty, I might have answered differently.

Pegged is a necessity. A survival mechanism. A way to keep the inevitable tide from crushing everything under its weight. But in the quiet hours, when I let my mind drift beyond the practicalities, I wonder—could it be something more? Not a revolution, not a war, not some fevered dream of liberation. But an opportunity to explore a new way of living. A shift so subtle that it does not declare itself, does not raise banners, does not demand fealty. Something that simply exists, like the air, like the tide, shaping lives without grand pronouncements.

I think of the old societies, the forgotten corners of history where people lived—without bureaucracy to dull them, without the slow suffocation of managerial logic. Where risk was part of the rhythm of existence, and fate was not something to be mitigated but engaged with. Maybe, in some quiet way, Pegged could reopen that door.

Or maybe this is just a letter written in a moment of indulgence, softened by the hush of the mountains, by the thought of you reading it. Because, if I’m being truthful, it is your mind I hear when I ask myself these questions. Your voice that has forced me, time and again, to justify, to refine, to admit that there is something beyond mere function, that even in my most pragmatic constructs, there is an undercurrent of longing.

I don’t know if Pegged will survive. I don’t know if it will matter. But if it does, if it becomes what I imagine in my most private thoughts, then perhaps it will not be because of my calculations or my stubbornness. Perhaps it will be because of you.

Take care of yourself.

A.