# 467
**Chapter 467: Writing a Letter**
Asylum of the Gods.
*Knock knock knock.*
A crisp knock came at the door. Bragi, who had just been about to undress for bed, paused in surprise and opened it to find a familiar figure in a white coat standing in the corridor.
“Director?” Bragi asked, puzzled to see Lin Qiye so late at night.
Lin Qiye gave a soft grunt and stepped inside.
“I’ve come to deliver something.” A glint of light flashed across his palm, and a red postbox the size of half a desk appeared out of nowhere. The box looked old-fashioned, its paint chipped in places—indistinguishable from the mailboxes common decades ago.
Bragi cradled the postbox, confusion deepening.
“Director, what is this…?”
“A treasure borrowed from a friend. Letters placed inside ignore distance and reach the person you miss most. When the recipient burns your letter along with their reply, the answer reappears in this box.” Lin Qiye spoke with absolute seriousness.
Bragi blinked, turning the red postbox over in his arms, skeptical. “Director, don’t tell me you’ve been tricked. This looks like an ordinary mailbox. Where’s the space-bending power?”
“Your realm isn’t high enough to see the mystery inside, but its ability is real.”
“So if I slip a letter in, Idun will get it and can write back?”
“Exactly. Still, there are restrictions. First, it works only once per day, and only at night. While it’s operating, no one may look at it, or the spatial transfer breaks and the letter vanishes into the void. Second, once you choose a recipient, you can’t change targets for a year. After you write to Idun, it won’t send to anyone else.”
The solemn explanation shook Bragi’s doubt.
What he said… actually sounded plausible.
And he had no reason to lie, right?
Could this mailbox really hide some wonder?
“C-can I send a letter now?” Bragi asked eagerly.
“Be my guest.” Lin Qiye gestured toward the desk.
Bragi hurried over, pulled out paper and pen, and after a moment’s thought began to write.
“To my eternal beloved, Idun:
When you read these words, the attempt has succeeded; I’ve finally reached you. In these days without you…”
Lin Qiye stood nearby, quietly watching. In the dim lamplight Bragi’s shadow stretched long; his pen never stopped, as though endless words pressed for release. He smiled, then frowned, then grieved…
Time trickled by. When Bragi set the pen down, three densely filled pages lay before him.
“Still missing something,” Lin Qiye said suddenly.
Bragi startled. “What?”
“You didn’t explain how to reply. How will she know?”
Bragi slapped his thigh. “Right! I almost forgot.”
He added detailed instructions, folded the pages neatly, took a deep breath, and gently slipped them into the postbox.
“All set?” he asked cautiously.
“All set.” Lin Qiye smiled. “Sleep well. With luck, you’ll find her answer when you wake—provided you don’t peek or open the box midway. Understood?”
Bragi nodded vigorously.
With everything arranged, Lin Qiye left the room—but he didn’t exit the asylum. Instead he flashed to the base of the great tree in the courtyard and sat, silently watching.
Just as expected, Bragi paced in excitement, then, unable to trust himself, covered his eyes with a pillow and forced himself to sleep…
Pale moonlight drifted in. After an unknown span, he slowly sat up.
The eyes that opened held no earlier excitement. He—no, she—draped a gauze shawl over her shoulders, stepped to the window, and met Lin Qiye’s gaze beneath the tree. Gratitude shimmered in her eyes.
Though Idun usually hid deep within Bragi’s consciousness, she still perceived the outside world. From the moment Lin Qiye produced the so-called space-ignoring mailbox, she had guessed his intent.
As Bragi said, it was only an ordinary postbox.
Its true purpose was to veil the fact that Idun was already beside him, letting them communicate through this ritual. Those imposing rules were merely safeguards against discovery.
Idun sat at the desk, opened the postbox, and took out Bragi’s letter, reading every word carefully.
She had long known its contents, yet knowing and holding the paper were utterly different. Now she was no longer a ghost lodged in Bragi’s body, but the wife he yearned for.
“…I’m in a wondrous, quiet place. I can’t comprehend its nature, yet everything here comforts me. How are you? How do you fare?”
“…The days here remind me of our time in the eternal garden, but without those hateful gods. My beloved Idun, if only we could live here together forever…”
“…During my stay I’ve composed a few poems for you. When we meet again, I wish to sing them to you in person…”
Tears glistened in Idun’s eyes as she traced the familiar script. She had watched Bragi’s state all this while; his deep love delighted her, yet worry and heartache weighed more.
In the dim lamplight, Idun lifted the pen, tears brimming, and began her reply.