Most Holy Afum,

I write though I know you do not answer in ink. But the act of writing keeps my hands from trembling, so I offer these words as prayer and as confession both.

The Explorer’s Guild grows louder with each passing month. Susie’s face stares from every wall, her smile brighter than the Hearthfire itself. Novices drink Spark brew with cheers while my husband coughs blood into a cloth. Folk shout the guild’s victories, but our pew grows emptier as the weak are left behind.

I do not begrudge the Explorers their fame. Perhaps they do save us, though their triumphs feel far away from the pew where I kneel. But I ask you, Afum: is wisdom found in endurance, or in defiance? Must I bend like a reed in storm, or stand like a tree that snaps in drought?

If Friar is to endure, let it not forget the quiet folk—the bakers, the widows, the children, the ones who light candles in dark corners and whisper names no one else remembers.

I remain your servant, even in doubt.

—Unsigned