He hadn't spoken to her in at least a quarter. Maybe two. There were the occasional phone calls, and every now and then, they'd make plans for lunch or dinner that never really happened. Dylan's house was an empty one, now, with Requiem living with Cayson, and he busied himself with little things: cleaning the house even after the housekeepers had been there; going to physical therapy; giving lectures at USR academies (their faces always initially stunned with the horror of his--he'd show them what the rapine had done to him, the sheer brutality of them)--but his days and nights were hollow with something he couldn't name. He still grieved the dead in the quiet of sleep. Dylan wrote her a letter. It didn't have the speed of electronic correspondence, of course, but there was an intimacy to it. His hand seemed less bold than usual, but it was recognizable as his.