Dear Bartleby, I wonder if my letters are reaching you, if you wish to be reached. Still I write, a loving sister’s duty. Goodman Crane looked for you his last trip to the city but you were not to be found, the post master saying only that you quit. When you worked at the post office I often imagined you busily sorting letters and finding one of mine to you in the pile, setting it aside to read at your leisure happy to have news from home. I like to imagine you happy. The Hudson is running high. I have often thought of sending you a message in a bottle letting it set sail from Kingston and float its way to Manhattan. Perhaps a friend would find it and take it to you. Perhaps you would write back. Mother won’t let us speak your name but all will be forgiven, I know, if you would but write a few words about yourself and send your love. I have dreams that you have found your calling studying law or medicine, even. That you are courting a fine lady living near Washington Square. I dream about you riding home with my new sister-in-law in a carriage lined with velvet. I have planted pansys, your favorite along the path to our door. You will be pleasantly surprised your next trip home. Dearest Bartleby, write, send word. I would prefer it if you came home but I will settle for a postcard, a note, a word, your signature, a sign that you are safe and thinking of home. Until then, I remain Your Loving Sister, Sarosa