That evening, Iris noticed her mother Aster had not come home and tried to calm herself, reminding herself of Aster’s habits of staying late at clubs or seeking work at the Revel Diner. Anxiety pressed on Iris as she considered how to cope and turned to the typewriter under her bed, the conduit for letters to her anonymous pen pal.

Entering her room, Iris discovered a new letter that had slipped through the wardrobe threshold. In it, the correspondent confessed feeling as if they wore armor others only saw reflected back at them—mistakes, failures, and disappointments—and asked how to change and claim a life without guilt. While Iris reread the letter, a second, apologetic note arrived, saying the writer had only needed to type and that no reply was necessary.

Moved, Iris composed a thoughtful response. She wrote that everyone wears armor, that vulnerability is a courageous strength, and that softening might begin with trusting one person and removing one piece of armor. She admitted her own contradictions: loving Forest’s bravery yet hating his absence, loving her mother while hating the toll of alcohol, and loving words but often despising them. She shared her hopes for Forest’s safe return, her mother’s wellness, and for writing that would matter to someone.

Iris sent the letter and tried to resume work on her essay, though she remained focused on the wardrobe and the unseen person beyond it. She checked the time—half past ten—and contemplated searching for her mother but hesitated to go out alone so late, reassuring herself Aster typically returned when clubs closed at midnight.

A final note slid through the portal. The correspondent accepted Iris’s counsel—“One person. One piece of armor.”—and thanked her, signaling a deepening trust between the two.