It took a year and four months from the first letter.
The correspondence had built slowly — Lena and the unnamed person from Greyfen exchanging perhaps one letter a month, sometimes less, never more, the pace dictated entirely by the person on the other end, who Lena had started, privately, calling "the baker," since baking had become, somewhere in the second or third letter, the safest thing they had in common to discuss.
The baker's name arrived in letter eleven.
*I think I'm ready to tell you my name. It's Wren — not the Wren who lives at your compound, I know there's one there, someone mentioned it once. A different Wren. I don't know why I'm telling you this feels like the bigger thing, bigger than anything else I've said, but it does. My name. Like giving it to someone makes me mo
