My darling Elizabeth,

I write to you from this small café on the Left Bank, watching the Seine flow gently beneath the April sky. It has been thirty-seven days since I last held you in my arms at the train station, and each one has felt like an eternity. The war may be over, but this separation is its own kind of battle—one fought not with weapons but with memory and hope.

Paris is rebuilding itself. The scars still show, of course, but there is life returning to these ancient streets. Flowers bloom in window boxes, musicians play on street corners, and children laugh as they chase each other through squares that once stood empty. It reminds me that even after the darkest nights, morning always comes.

I visited Notre Dame yesterday and lit a candle for us. I stood beneath those soaring arches and thought about faith—not just in God, but in love, in future, in the promise of return. The colored light through the rose window scattered across the stone floor like the patterns your summer dress makes when you twirl in the garden. Even in such a sacred place, it is you my thoughts turn to as I offer my prayers.

The university has kept me busy with lectures and research, though I confess my mind wanders often to our little house on Maple Street. Do the lilacs I planted last fall show any signs of blooming? Has Mrs. Patterson next door continued to bring you those awful biscuits she insists are a family recipe? I smile thinking of you politely accepting them while later feeding them to the birds in our backyard.

I carry your photograph in my breast pocket, right against my heart. The edges are becoming worn from how often I take it out to look at your face. Sometimes, when I am alone in my rented room, I speak to it as though you can hear me across the ocean. Perhaps, in some way only lovers understand, you do.

The diplomatic corps assures me I will be home by summer's end. Three more months seems unbearable now, but I keep reminding myself of all we have already endured. This temporary separation is nothing compared to the lifetime we have ahead of us. When I return, I promise we will never be parted again. I have already begun inquiries about a teaching position at the college in our town.

Please give my love to your parents and tell your father I have not forgotten my promise to bring him a bottle of proper French cognac. And kiss our little Margaret's forehead for me each night. Tell her that her papa looks at the same moon she does, and that it carries my love to her in her dreams.

I must close this letter now, my love. The mail carrier makes his collection soon, and I want these words to begin their journey to you without delay. Remember that with each sunset, we are one day closer to being reunited.

P.S. I found the book of Keats poems you have been searching for at a small bookshop near the Sorbonne. I will bring it home to you, along with my heart, which has never left your keeping.

P.P.S. The weather here has been surprisingly mild. It makes me think of our walks by the river back home. Every little detail reminds me of you.

P.P.P.S. Counting the days, my love. Counting the days.