Mr. Pettigrew,

I saw the article. I know what it's like to be in your position, although I'm sure you already know that. The articles they wrote about me always found a way to make the lies sound real—they mixed white lies with known truths until it was difficult to differentiate between the two and suddenly everything sounded twice as bad as it really was. So I know, and I'm sorry it was published.

Of course it might not bother you the way my articles bothered me, and in that case let's pretend this letter was written with half the empathy I am trying to convey. But if it does, I am only an owl again.

Irish
P.S. Your pocketwatch is still safe. I checked on it right before sending this letter.

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3 April, 1891

Mr. Pettigrew,

You know, I've written enough sad, self-deprecatory letters in my life to know that you're not okay. In fact, I could almost hear you reading this letter in that drab, sad voice of yours. If it means anything, I think your character is only little questionable. Not terrible. Definitely not any worse than mine—you don't know half the things I've done, but that's probably for the best.

Anyways, I know the article is rough. Don't forget that you have people who care. I pushed them all away—don't make that mistake.

Irish

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8 April, 1891