[A letter arrives, folded in the shape of a severely distorted crane. The handwriting is shaky, almost illegible.]
Sister… Sweet sister… I am not… How long has it…? I know not… Difficult. It is difficult to write. Pell will bring it thence when I am done, I think, though still I cannot trust him. I have your letters. I believe they are your letters. If I’ve hands at all, I cannot stop them shaking. Fret not for me, and forgive my scrawling. Imagine me a ghost. I need not imagine the same. Do you think on what I would do, that you will then make certain not to do it? There are many who exist without faith. I have none, and am nothing, but you are not like me. Perhaps it is not faith you require. Whether you have it or not will not prevent your suffering. Let the lad die. Then steel your heart and forget before it kills you. A
[The letter dissolves into strange symbols and half-sketched and unintelligible images that in turn gradate into black ink, as if it had been spilled over the parchment.]